


Day of Silence

by thetimesinbetween



Category: Glee
Genre: Angst, Coming Out, F/F, F/M, Family, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Support
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:04:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 32,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/813934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thetimesinbetween/pseuds/thetimesinbetween
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a story about support, love, and friendships that are more like family. There is Kurt and Blaine being their spectacularly adorable selves; Santana being Santana in all her fiery, vulnerable glory; Quinn being a strong, independent woman; Dave Karofsky grappling with who he is and who he wants to be; and Nick and Jeff...well, you'll have to read on to see about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Seed

**Author's Note:**

> Day of Silence was originally written in the summer hiatus between S2 and S3. As such, it departs from canon there. 
> 
> This was originally posted on livejournal in June of 2011 here: http://aes-nox.livejournal.com/702.html.

_You think I’m pretty without any makeup on_ \--Kurt smiles and ducks his head further into his history textbook. He and Blaine are studying in the sunniest nook of Dalton’s library, sharing the headphones to Blaine’s iPod. As soon as the opening chord of “Teenage Dream” chimes in their ears, Blaine’s foot hooks around Kurt’s so that his leg is pressing into Kurt’s from ankle to knee. 

Kurt, like a ridiculous romantic fool, feels the heat of Blaine’s leg spreading through his whole body. (Kurt glances around, but the only other study table in sight is still empty.)

Oh god, he’s blushing again, isn’t he? He ducks his head, trying to hide his embarrassingly pink face, trying to concentrate on something as irrelevant as the Thirty Years’ War despite the presence of his boyfriend. (Boyfriend!)

— _perspective, then, the War involved two conflicts: first, who would have the internal political_ —

“Hey, Kurt?”

Kurt jolts—Blaine, leg still curled around Kurt’s, has pushed aside his precalculus homework and is apparently studying Kurt instead. “Teenage Dream” ends, and Blaine pauses the iPod without taking his eyes off Kurt. 

Kurt wonders how long it will take to get used to having Blaine look at him like that. Like—well, like Kurt’s his boyfriend. Like he doesn’t want to be anywhere else or with anyone else. Like Kurt has his complete attention. 

Well, longer than the one week they’ve been together. Clearly.

“Sorry, did I break your concentration?” Blaine smiles, tugging out his earbud.

“Not at all,” Kurt answers, pushing aside his textbook as well. “I wasn’t really concentrating to begin with.” 

Blaine smiles again, just looking at him. 

Kurt looks at him expectantly. “So--?”

“So, I just remembered that I hadn’t mentioned yet—I’m going to do the Day of Silence again this Friday, and I was hoping you’d do it with me.” 

Kurt tilts his head, turning to face Blaine. “Really, you do the Day of Silence?” 

Blaine nods. “For a few years now. Have you ever?” 

“Not really, no.”

“Well, it’s safe here.” Blaine’s leg nudges Kurt’s playfully, as if to say, _see_? “And teachers don’t mind, as long as you talk to them beforehand.”

“I wasn’t worried about the safety part at McKinley, actually.” Blaine gives him a perplexed look, and Kurt shrugs. “Well, everyone already knew about my sexuality. I was already getting thrown in dumpsters every day. I didn’t have much to lose.” (With Karofsky’s worst threat echoing in his mind for the first time in at least two days, Kurt shoves away the thought that he’d had a lot to lose, actually.)

“But that’s even more reason to do it,” says Blaine, confused. “It’s all about ending LGBTQ bullying.” 

“That’s what I mean, though. How could silence end it? Silence is the problem. The way I see it, I spend every day being myself, dressing the way I want—all of that—in spite of all the homophobic Neaderthals out there.” 

“Well, the idea is, if enough people are silent together, then—”

“But I was the only out gay kid at McKinley.”

Blaine opens his mouth, closes it, and studies Kurt for a moment. “Okay,” he says quietly. “I get your point. But—the way I see it, it’s about solidarity. With the other kids who are being bullied and don’t have a voice, and with the other people being silent for the day.” He’s quiet for a moment, but when Kurt doesn’t say anything, he continues. “To be honest, it’s how I came out at my old school. So I guess…it’s just important to me.” 

Kurt pauses. Then he takes Blaine’s hand. (He tries to remember if he’s ever been the one to take Blaine’s hand before. He doesn’t think so.) “Then I’ll do it with you, Blaine. Of course.” Slowly, they smile. Blaine raises their joined hands and kisses the back of Kurt’s fingers. Then he slides his earbud back in, presses play on the iPod, and picks up his pencil. 

Kurt turns back to his textbook but can’t read, not with Blaine’s fingers resting between his.

* * *

Friday comes frighteningly fast. Kurt feels the oppressive weight of silence on him as soon as he steps out of bed. He’s hardly in the habit of belting out ballads every morning, and, well, if he used to do so occasionally, those days ended when he started getting up two hours before anyone else just to make it to Dalton on time.

But he still usually hums to himself in the morning. The quiet today is unnerving, and the music he blasts in the Navigator to offset it even more so.

Eventually, he turns off the music. It’s overcast, the brightening sky a uniform grey-white. He’s tempted to sing through his discomfort—Glee club has had that effect on him, and after all there’s no one else in the car to hear, so what does it matter? He opens his mouth—and remembers Blaine saying “it’s just important to me.” So the drive to Dalton is quiet. Somewhere around the half-hour mark, it stops being unsettling and starts being peaceful. 

When he does finally arrive, Blaine is waiting for him on the front steps, cheeks flushed in the crisp morning air. 

Kurt smiles at him as he makes his way across the parking lot to the other boy. He’s still so aware of the quiet—usually they’d have exchanged hellos and how are yous by now, and probably started some conversation about Wes’s growing obsession with his gavel, or New Directions’ preparations for Nationals, or the latest Vogue cover. 

Instead, Kurt notices Blaine’s light grip around the coffee he’s about to hand Kurt. He notices how the colorless sky renders Blaine’s skin strangely pale and delicate against his navy blazer. He notices the cold press of Blaine’s fingers on his neck, and the warmth of Blaine’s cheek under his lips. And then the warmth of Blaine’s lips on Kurt’s forehead. _Thank you_ , says Blaine’s kiss.

Kurt takes Blaine’s hand and leads him inside.

* * * 

Unfortunately, Kurt and Blaine don’t have any classes together until Warblers practice after school. Still, Kurt makes it through the day with relative ease. He had warned his teachers about the Day of Silence two days beforehand, and none of them are bothered. Some of them refrain from calling on him for the day; some briefly explain the Day of Silence at the beginning of class; one has Kurt stand in front of the class at the white board so that he can easily participate. Class is a little awkward, sure—but none of the teachers try to make him speak. They don’t even give him disapproving looks.

Kurt can’t help but wonder what the teachers would be like at McKinley. Would they go along with it? Would Figgins? Would Mr. Schuester be supportive, or intentionally dense? 

Maybe Rachel would do it with him—she does constantly mention her two gay dads, after all. But she is also the most vocal person that Kurt knows. He wonders which is more important to her. 

The other Dalton students are, as always, completely accepting. He gets a couple of quizzical glances, especially when he has to stand at the white board for an entire period, but no one seems angry or hostile or offended. There is even another silent boy—Kurt can’t recall ever really noticing him before—in Kurt’s history class, wearing a NOH8 button. They exchange awkward smiles on the way out the door. 

(Kurt has so many questions for the other boy. What is your name? Why are you silent today? Are you straight or gay? Were you bullied too? Is that why you’re here? Are you wondering all these things about me, too? Or do you not care? Or can you just look at me and see how I was hurt? Are you judging me?)

Kurt tries to picture being silent at McKinley. It’s almost impossible. He doesn’t blend there—whether he is walking mutely down the hallway or singing his heart out in Glee, he is _loud._

Silence, as difficult as he’s beginning to understand it can be, still feels a little like weakness. At least for McKinley. 

(Silence at Dalton feels like love.)

* * * 

Kurt is relieved when the final bells rings. (Has it always been that loud?) He steps into the Warblers’ practice room and sinks onto the sofa. A few of the tenors are milling around near the Council’s table, but they’re fairly quiet. Kurt can feel himself relaxing. He’d already known Dalton is safe, that no one was really going to give him crap, that he wasn’t going to drive home covered in bruises or smelling like trash (he realizes suddenly that he doesn’t even know where Dalton’s dumpsters are and carefully pushes aside the stunned gratitude that fills him), but he’s still been tense all day. Concentrating on keeping his mouth shut, for one. And, maybe, he admits to himself, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But he’s made it through the whole day without a single slur, without so much as a single disdainful glance. 

It’s hard to remember the last time he felt this safe outside his own home. 

Blaine walks in, carrying himself with the same confidence as always, despite his abnormal quietness. He sinks onto the couch next to Kurt, and Kurt senses that Blaine has the same sense of safety that he does. He can tell from Blaine’s slow, even breathing, from the unguarded softness in Blaine’s eyes as he sees Kurt for the first time since that morning, from the way he sits closer to Kurt than usual, pressing them together from ankle to knee to hip to clasped hands to elbows to shoulders. 

From the way Blaine lays his palm warm over Kurt’s jaw, tilts his face toward Blaine’s, and kisses him.

Kurt can’t even wrap his head around the way he melts into Blaine, completely content.

Then there’s a chuckle from across the room, and Kurt jerks away from Blaine, suddenly feeling exposed, just daring someone to do more than laugh at them, daring anyone to threaten this beautiful thing he has—

But it’s only Flint, still smiling at them, tossing Blaine a thumbs-up before turning to continue his conversation with Nick. 

Blaine squeezes Kurt’s hand and smiles sympathetically. 

The reality of what Blaine had done washes over Kurt. Well, it is Dalton—and even then just the Warblers—but still. For a moment, Kurt understands Blaine’s particular brand of courage. Which is wrapped up in sometimes-feigned-sometimes-real confidence and risk and vulnerability and—

“Will this meeting of the Dalton Academy Warblers please come to order,” interrupts Thad’s voice. 

Kurt turns to the Coucil’s table curiously. Wes is Head of the Council, and David is his Vice—and both of them are sitting there calmly as Second Vice President Thad usurps their authority. 

A murmur of confusion ripples through the room, and Wes bangs his gavel. Kurt, swallowing a laugh, notices the satisfied way Wes looks at the gavel when this effectively silences the entire room.

“Order, I said!” adds Thad unnecessarily. “Now, as you may have noticed, five Warblers—including two of our Councilmen—are participating in a Day of Silence today. This, of course—” 

Kurt tunes Thad out and turns amazed eyes on Blaine, who glances at him with a grin. Wes and David are watching the two of them with barely-concealed smiles. Kurt gapes at them for a moment before squeezing Blaine’s hand. 

He can’t know for sure if his McKinley friends would do this with him, but here are Blaine’s friends—his very straight friends—blatantly shirking the responsibility they so treasure (or, in Wes’s case, obsess over,) just to be in solidarity….

Kurt blinks back tears. _You can cry later,_ he tells himself sternly. _Haven’t you cried in front of them enough lately?_

As Thad yammers on (as Thad is wont to do), Kurt remembers— _five_ Warblers. He tugs Blaine’s hand, and Blaine nods toward Jeff, perched on the arm of the opposite couch. Kurt knows from previous questioning that Jeff is straight (and with that hair, he refuses to blame himself for checking). He resolves to figure out why Jeff is silent once they can all speak again.

The rest of the Warblers practice passes rather uneventfully. With five of their twenty members—including their lead—vowed to silence, they spend the practice listening to those who aren’t participating sing through their parts individually and critiquing them. Kurt is honestly more concentrated on the warmth seeping into his side from where Blaine is tucked against him. 

Afterwards, Blaine drives them to their traditional post-practice coffee break. (They notice that their usual cashier is in the back making coffee today. She smiles when she sees Blaine gesturing and writing his way through their order, and pantomimes zipping her own lips. Kurt feels tears welling up again. He tries to tell himself he’s being ridiculous, but Blaine looks so touched by the barista that he can’t convince himself.) They sip their coffee, studying each other and the people around them. Usually, this time is filled with stories and jokes and confessions. It’s the strangest the silence has felt since Kurt got up that morning. 

Kurt is relieved when Blaine jerks his head toward the door with a questioning look in his eyes. Kurt throws away the majority of his coffee and follows Blaine out. 

They’d come in Blaine’s car, so Blaine has to drive Kurt back to Dalton before Kurt can go back to Lima. The closer they get to Dalton, the more reluctant Kurt becomes. 

To: Dad  
 _Can I stay at Dalton for a while today?_

From: Dad  
 _everything ok?_

To: Dad  
 _Yes. Tell you about today later. ___

__From: Dad  
 _ _home by ten__ _ _

__They pull up next to Kurt’s Navigator, and Blaine looks over at him longingly, cradling Kurt’s cheek for a moment before his phone buzzes in the cupholder. Kurt nods to it, so Blaine reads the text (From: Kurt _I can stay for a while. Sound good?_ ) quickly, his face breaking into a smile. He nods emphatically to Kurt and leads him back into Dalton. _ _

__They pass the empty academic hallways—here their silence is oddly fitting—before crossing into the dormitories. It’s Friday afternoon and most of the boarders are talking, yelling, running in and out of each other’s rooms, blasting music—generally being obnoxious teenage boys. A few of them—Nick and David, of course, Kurt recognizes from the Warblers—greet Blaine. Someone whoops when Blaine ushers Kurt into his room and closes the door behind them._ _

__Blaine winces and shrugs apologetically at Kurt. Kurt smiles. Though awkward, that was definitely the least homophobic whoop ever directed at him._ _

__They just look at each other for a moment. Usually, Kurt reflects, you can’t just look at someone. Looking is a prelude to judging or talking or kissing or threatening or something. But now he can just…look._ _

__Slowly, the corners of Blaine’s mouth curl into a smile, and as Kurt spends more and more time watching those lips, the look turns into a prelude after all._ _

__They gravitate toward each other, Blaine still smiling. Their lips brush, and Kurt doesn’t regret changing the meaning of the look, not at all, not when the first act is this good. Blaine’s lips are gentle but firm against his; the two of them are not really making out so much as Blaine is slowly, repetitively pecking Kurt’s lips until Kurt is lulled and languid and calm, and his hand slides around Blaine’s neck of its own volition, pulling him closer. Then Blaine’s tongue is skimming his bottom lip, and Kurt gasps—the loudest sound he’s made all day—and Blaine slides his tongue along the underside of Kurt’s, playful, before drawing back completely._ _

___Are you all right?_ his eyes ask. _Is this all right?__ _

__Kurt nods and tugs Blaine’s lips back to his. He can feel Blaine smile into the kiss, and then he’s smiling too, and after a few moments they’re not even trying to kiss anymore, instead just breathing each other’s air._ _

__A moment later, Blaine’s hands take his shoulders, turn him, and give him a little push toward Blaine’s (messily made) bed._ _

__Kurt sits on the edge gingerly (he is proud of himself for not panicking) as Blaine fishes a notebook and two pens out of his backpack. Supplies found, Blaine tosses himself onto the bed and tugs Kurt down beside him. Kurt complies, laying stiffly on his back as Blaine rummages for a clean page._ _

___Is this all right?_ is the first thing Blaine writes. He glances at Kurt’s perfectly straight back. _Not planning on doing anything to deserve that whoop,_ he adds, grinning hesitantly at Kurt. _ _

__Kurt grins back sheepishly, rolls over onto his stomach, and grabs the other pen. _Sorry,_ he begins, but before he’s even finished Blaine is writing _Don’t be. Want you to be comfortable.__ _

__Blaine gives him a questioning look, and Kurt relaxes and writes _I am.__ _

__They spend the next two hours talking about the Day of Silence, half in writing and half in exaggerated facial expressions. Blaine’s day has been almost exactly like Kurt’s, although he hadn’t known that anyone other than the five Warblers was participating. He vows to track down the kid from Kurt’s history class. He also refuses to tell Kurt why Jeff participated, suggesting that Kurt ask Jeff himself. They commiserate over the strangeness of listening to music without singing along, and laugh soundlessly over the way Warblers practice had turned out with a fourth of the members silent. Kurt wants to ask Blaine about the times he’d done the Day of Silence before, how it had been at a public school, what his coming out story was. But Blaine is so happy—more relaxed than Kurt has ever seen him, and then there’s the way he rolls around, shameless, unguarded, laughing silently, messing up his bedcovers—Kurt can’t bring himself to ruin it. So they eventually let the pens rest and just lay there, holding hands between them on the bed._ _

__They are quiet together._ _

__Not long after, a distinctive knock interrupts the quiet. _David,_ Blaine scrawls on the paper before getting up to open the door. _ _

__David doesn’t even blink when he sees Kurt in Blaine’s bed (which, now that Kurt has a moment to think about it, is probably not allowed). David pantomimes eating, and Blaine nods. Dinner? he mouths to Kurt, and Kurt nods. _Then I’ll have to head home,_ he writes, holding up the notebook. Blaine nods, and three walk to dinner together. Blaine takes Kurt’s hand as they’re leaving his room and doesn’t let go until he has to use fork and knife at the same time to cut his steak. (Kurt had maybe purposely not served himself anything that would require both hands.) _ _

__The three of them sit with Nick. Nick, the only one who’s still speaking, asks how their days have gone, and they have fun trying to converse entirely in pantomime. Eventually, Nick launches into a story involving too many older brothers to keep straight, then another about Jeff’s first (disastrous) solo audition. By the time David gets up for dessert, Kurt has nearly forgotten that it’s the Day of Silence. (But only nearly—Blaine has made up for letting go of Kurt’s hand by leaning against him slightly, the way he had at Warblers practice, and Kurt think Blaine is replacing hearing Kurt with feeling him, and as it turns out, that is impossible to forget about.)_ _

__Eventually, though, dinner does end. Blaine and Kurt hug in Dalton’s otherwise empty foyer, and neither is eager to let go. Kurt isn’t sure he would have ever stepped back, except his phone buzzes in his pocket and he jumps, startled. Blaine smiles and draws Kurt down to kiss him quickly. One last look, and Kurt is gone in the dim light outside.__

 _ _* * *__

 _ _Kurt doesn’t mind the quiet on the way home._ _

__(It doesn’t feel lonely anymore. Not at all.)_ _


	2. The Branches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted in July 2011, here: http://aes-nox.livejournal.com/1281.html

**April 2011**

The morning following the Day of Silence, Kurt wakes to Blaine’s text. _Visit me?_ it says. _I woke up missing you._

Kurt is at Dalton two hours later. (He may have shortened his moisturizing routine to hurry things along. But only a little bit.) He and Blaine lounge in bed doing homework, and David and Nick and Jeff wander through Blaine’s open door an hour later. 

They all walk to lunch together, and Kurt is just sidling up to Jeff when Nick steps between them. “Hey,” he says quietly, taking Kurt’s elbow so that the two of them fall behind the rest of the group. “Blaine mentioned you were wondering about why Jeff was silent yesterday. And I figure he told you to ask Jeff yourself?” Kurt nods. “Yeah, you should do that. But not today, okay? Wait a little while.” Kurt nods again, giving Nick an curious look, and Nick adds, “Look, it’s not a secret or anything. Just not today.” 

 

**May 2011**

“No, Quinnie, honey, don’t use your salad fork for your pot roast.” Judy Fabray smiles and shakes her head. “You know better than that. Now, tell me, sweetheart. What are your plans for the Prom Queen campaign next year?”

Quinn finishes her sip of water, then sits up with her back perfectly straight. “I’m not running for Prom Queen next year.” Quinn watches her mother, who avoids her gaze. 

“Oh, but that’s silly, sweetheart.” Her mother glances up, smiling, but returns to picking at her halved grapes when she sees Quinn’s hard expression. (Quinn had practiced that look in the mirror, earlier. It took only a few minutes to perfect. She tried to be proud of that, instead of disturbed, but it didn’t really work.) “You can still win, you know. Of course you can!” Her mother slides her fork under a leaf of lettuce and eats it daintily. “Honestly, Junior Prom is one thing, but no one would vote for that homosexual boy instead of you, Quinnie. Not when it counts.” She smiles again.

Quinn is still. She can feel the familiar rage circulating through her stomach, through her chest, surging up her throat. 

“Well. It doesn’t matter, because I’m not running. I don’t want to be Prom Queen.” (And that’s the thing, too. She really doesn’t. Somewhere along the way—losing her virginity to Puck; or being kicked out of her house; or having her baby; or feeling more at home in Glee than at her house after she moved back in; or watching Kurt walk up to accept Junior Prom Queen with _fuck you, fuck you all_ written across his face; or losing her last chance with Finn; or living in New York for a week and finally _getting_ it, actually knowing that she would not be stuck in Lima, not for a baby, not for a boy, not for her parents, not for _anything_ ; or cutting her hair short as defiance and as a reminder of everything she’d learned and as a way to make herself smile in the mirror again…. Yes, somewhere in the past two years, Prom Queen stopped seeming like the end-all be-all of life and started seeming stupid and trite and childish.) 

Basically, Quinn doesn’t give a fuck anymore.

“Quinnie, stop.” Laughing. Dismissive. “You’ve wanted to be Prom Queen since you were three! You—”

All the energy in Quinn’s gut convulses, and she’s on her feet before she registers moving. 

“Okay. No. I’m done.” 

Quinn would like to say that it’s like someone else speaking through her mouth. That would be less terrifying. But this feels very real. She feels very real. (For once.) The words are easy, and they’re the right ones, and Quinn doesn’t understand how she can be scared and furious and relieved all at the same time. 

(She kind of likes it.)

“Quinnie—what—”

“I’m just done.” Quinn stacks all her plates neatly on top of one another and lays her forks and knife on top. She lifts the pile and turns to carry it into the kitchen. 

“Quinn—the middle of dinner—finish your fruit, honey—”

Quinn whirls, and one of the forks flies off her stack. “WOULD YOU JUST STOP?” Silence. (Quinn is the only one who has ever raised her voice in this house. And looks where it’s gotten them all.) “No. Seriously? That’s what you’re thinking about right now. No. I’m not going to finish my fruit. And I’m not going to run for Prom Queen. And I’m not going to talk to you about your Senior Prom, and I’m not going to re-found Chastity Club, and I’m not going to be cheer captain, and I’m not going to find a nice, Christian man for myself at McKinley and move into the new subdivision they’re building a mile down the road. Don’t you get it? I’m done. I’m done with all of this.” _Including, most especially, you._

Quinn picks up the wayward fork, picks up the plates, rinses everything off, puts it in the dishwasher. She stalks to her room, pulls out her suitcases. She packs decisively, remembering what she’d regretted forgetting last time (last time, when her mother had done absolutely nothing to help her), remembering what she had been happy to have left behind. Her mother hovers in the doorway the entire time, murmuring “No, no, no, Quinnie, honey, no, no, don’t do this Quinnie, my Lucy, my baby—”

 _You chose this when you kicked Dad out for your sake, but not for mine,_ Quinn does not say. _You chose it again when you tried to erase all I’ve learned._

When Quinn is finished—it doesn’t take long—she picks up her suitcases and walks out. On the front porch, she turns and fishes her house key out of her purse and drops it in her mother’s pocket. Judy Fabray shrieks, then sobs, and Quinn is tired. She is so tired. Quinn says, “I’m not coming back. You had your chances with me. Now I’m done. And you don’t get to say a damn thing about it.” Quinn turns away. Steps. Pauses. “Just send me a Christmas card, okay?”

Then she walks away. 

(Fifteen minutes later, when she stops crying, she nestles her phone between her ear and shoulder. “Santana? Hey, it’s Quinn.”)

 

 

**June 2011**

“You’re sure you don’t want to go to Britney’s pool party?”

“No. Seriously, Blaine? Did you really want to go that badly? Because this is about the fifth time you’ve asked.” Kurt points at Blaine accusingly with a plastic spoon. 

Blaine grins and relieves Kurt of the fruit bowl in his arms. “You know I couldn’t care less. I just want to make sure I’m not monopolizing your time.” 

Kurt shakes his head and leads Blaine into the Hummel-Hudson backyard, improvised picnic blanket in hand. “Do _not_ worry about that. If I got sick of you, I’d tell you to get out of my house.”

Blaine snorts. He has been practically living at Kurt’s house this summer. “Oh, as if you could get sick of me.” He nudges Kurt playfully.

Kurt’s hands smooth the edges of the blanket. “I really couldn’t, though,” he says quietly.

Blaine tugs Kurt down to sit between his splayed legs, kissing the back of Kurt’s neck. “You know I feel the same,” he murmurs. Then he hooks his chin over Kurt’s shoulder and adds “But hey—this is supposed to be a happy summer picnic celebration!” His hands are sliding down Kurt’s sides, about to dig into his boyfriend’s most ticklish spots, when Kurt says

“Actually—I wanted to ask you something.” 

Blaine’s hands ease out of attack mode and settle instead on Kurt’s knees. “Okay,” he says. “Shoot.”

“I mean—we can still do the celebratory picnic and—”

“Kurt, seriously,” Blaine chuckles. “Now you’re making me nervous. Just ask. It’ll be fine.” He squeezes Kurt to him, feels Kurt take a deep breath.

“Okay. How—how did you come out? What’s your story?” 

Blaine doesn’t, you know, shriek or run away or do anything stupid, but he’s sure that Kurt feels how he tenses against Kurt’s back because Kurt rushes to explain “It’s just—I’ve been wondering since forever, of course, and then you mentioned it back in April but there was never a good time to bring it up again, and I kept thinking about it, so—”

“Kurt.” Blaine tucks his arms along Kurt’s ribs in a close hug, and kisses where Kurt’s collarbone joins with his shoulder. Kurt melts back against him, and Blaine smiles a little. “It’s fine,” he breathes along Kurt’s shoulder. “I just wasn’t expecting that. But of course I’ll tell you. It’s not so bad, really.” 

“Okay.” Kurt’s voice is very small.

Blaine wonders where to even begin.

“Well. I’ve come out more than once,” he settles on, because it’s true. “I…hmm. I was out to myself by seventh grade. But I didn’t quite know…what to do with that. So I finished middle school in the closet. And when I was thinking I might tell my best friend, Jordan, his family moved away. So then I started high school still in the closet.

“I passed. I mean, I _made sure_ that I passed.” (Blaine gets the feeling sometimes that Kurt, for all that Kurt doesn’t really want to blend in, is jealous that Blaine could realistically go around without everyone _knowing_ the way that everyone will always know for Kurt. If Blaine avoids v-necks and boots and pink, if he doesn’t let his eyes linger, if he avoids getting excited about anything, especially singing, if, if, if he does a thousand things, so consciously, so excruciatingly consciously, if he turns his back on himself, again and again and again within the course of a minute, and keeps that up for a whole day, and if he does all that with a polite smile on his face—well. Yes. Blaine can pass. It is physically possible. But Blaine is jealous of Kurt. Kurt, who doesn’t have to decide, every day, between rejecting himself and being rejected by others.) Blaine shakes his head to clear it. “I was even on the soccer team. I wasn’t popular, or anything. I was well-liked. Which is what I wanted. 

“There was just one…snag. The one out gay kid at my school.” Blaine feels the little hitch in Kurt’s carefully even breathing, and pauses to kiss his shoulder. “He—his name was Tyler. They were terrible to him, of course. The football team, the seniors in his gym class…some of my soccer teammates. I didn’t know what to do, at first. Coming out was suddenly the end of the world. Back in middle school, it was just nerve-wracking because of the uncertainty. I couldn’t figure out how anyone would react. And then, here’s the first out gay person I ever meet, and he’s just—beaten down. Constantly.” Kurt is stiff in his arms, but one of his hands has inched over to hold Blaine’s. Blaine squeezes it. 

“So. I started talking to him. I felt bad for him, and I wanted to show him that not everyone was going to be a giant homophobic bastard. And…I wanted to figure out how bad it really was. I wanted to figure out if I could handle living his life.” _Your life,_ Blaine thinks, and it hangs unspoken between them for a moment, their fingers running over each other, careful and reverent. “As you can imagine, he wasn’t very…receptive. I was friends with some of his bullies. He told me to fuck off, actually.” _(Just fuck off. Okay, Blaine? You think making nice with me for five minutes makes you any better than them? When’s the last time you told Kimball to maybe lay off shoving me to the ground five times daily? Or asked Burnworth and his gang of idiots to stop toilet-papering my house every Thursday? Don’t kid yourself._ And, later, _Hey, saw you chatting up the fag in the hallway today, Anderson. How’s that going for you? Got yourself a boyfriend?)_

“I didn’t know what to do. I was so scared. I left him alone.”

The sun is coming through the big tree that shades half Kurt’s backyard now, stronger and stronger, dappling the grass with sunlight. The day is beautiful, and he has a beautiful boy in his arms, and it’s too much. Blaine buries his face in Kurt’s shoulder, takes a shaky breath, feeling Kurt press kisses into his palms. 

He wishes that he could have known, then, how good things would be.

Another breath. Okay. “And then. I started thinking. About…what path I was going down.” _Two years from being another Karofsky, Kurt,_ Blaine thinks. He knows Kurt would deny it up and down. Would say that Blaine could never be that cruel. Blaine isn’t sure. It’s so hard to be sure. It’s so hard to know, beneath all the confidence he’s grown or maybe just pasted on, beneath all the pride he has in who he is, beneath the equal measure of fear he carries, beneath the love he feels for Kurt—it’s hard to know what’s _there,_ at the very core of him. It’s hard to say, yes, this is me and these are all of the mes I could have been, and no, that is not me and it could never have been me. 

“The next Friday was the Day of Silence. I’d been reading coming out stories online, advice, trying to figure out what I wanted, if I could even…. And I came across the Day of Silence, and it was just….” Blaine shakes his head against Kurt’s shoulder blade. “I couldn’t not do it. The only reason I hadn’t come out already was worry over the backlash. The only reason I really _did_ want to come out was so that Tyler wouldn’t have to go it alone, and I wouldn’t have to watch him go it alone. So. Perfect fit.” 

Kurt’s voice is soft. “So you just…did it.” His fingers curl into Blaine’s again, and they grip each other as though something is pulling them apart. 

“Well, more or less. Yeah. I ordered a Day of Silence button, of all things. I don’t know why I thought that would help; I didn’t even wear it that year. But my mom ended up signing for it, left it on my bed. She didn’t ask about it. I’m sure she looked up what it meant, since I never mail-order things…. Anyway, I was too terrified to explain. Family dinner got quieter. They weren’t sure, and I wasn’t sure what they knew, and I don’t think anyone knew what would happen once things were cleared up.

“That Thursday night, I texted Tyler, asking if he was doing it. I’m still surprised he answered at all, considering I’d gotten his number from a guy who’d been texting him insults for about two weeks. But he did answer…and he said yes. It was on his ‘likes’ on facebook, so I’d hoped he was, but…. When he said yes, I knew for sure that I was going through with it. I didn’t sleep that night. Actually, I snuck out of my house at like three in the morning and walked around my neighborhood, trying to calm down. It worked. I let myself back in at seven, and got dressed, and left.

“School was hell. I hadn’t taped my mouth, but it became pretty obvious pretty quickly what was happening. Most of the soccer team tried to pass it off as a joke, but I wasn’t going along with that, so it didn’t really work. Things started getting uglier. Shoving and insults and…well. What Tyler had to deal with every day.” This time he says it: “What _you_ had to deal with every day.” 

“Blaine….”

Blaine squeezes him hard—maybe too hard, but he thinks both of them need to feel it—and Kurt falls silent. 

“You okay?” murmurs Blaine after a moment. 

“Yes,” says Kurt. He turns in Blaine’s arms a little so that he can see Blaine’s face. “Are you?”

“Yes,” he answers. Then, quieter, “I can’t stop thinking about how good I have it now.”

Kurt’s face softens. “Me too,” he whispers. His hand snakes up to brush a wayward curl from Blaine’s forehead, and suddenly Kurt’s face is in Blaine’s hands, too, and they’re kissing slow and deep. 

A minute later, when Blaine starts leaning back toward the picnic blanket, they abruptly realize that—regardless of the yard’s privacy fence—they are in fact outside. They both start to draw back. But Kurt growls slightly, (and _ohmygod shit shit_ Blaine is distracted by that sound because it is _delicious_ ,) and nudges Blaine onto his back, follows him down; Kurt is half on top of him, and for one glorious moment there they are together in broad gorgeous summer daylight. Blaine sighs contentedly into Kurt’s mouth—

Then Kurt’s entire body tenses. He sits back up, breaking the kiss. Blaine sits up, too, wrapping himself back around his boyfriend. 

“Sorry,” Kurt murmurs as he settles into Blaine’s arms. 

“Sorry for the world’s average level of homophobia, or just Ohio’s?” Blaine laughs. 

“Sorry that I can’t ignore that part of me that’s afraid of making out with you in my own fenced-in backyard.” Kurt shakes his head. “It doesn’t even make sense. I’m okay sitting like this with you here; it’s already obvious we’re extremely gay. But….” 

Blaine rocks the two of them, just a little. He understands. “Sorry that I can’t ignore that part of me, either,” he says finally. 

“One day, we’re going to live in a place that we can kiss whenever we want, wherever we want,” Kurt tells him. (It doesn’t sound hopeful. It sounds like Kurt’s telling him a secret.)

Blaine smiles. “I would like that.” He leans around and pecks Kurt on the lips one more time. “I would like that very much.” 

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“Will you finish your story?” asks Kurt. 

“Mmhm,” Blaine answers, his forehead resting against the back of Kurt’s neck. A pause. “I was telling you that it got…pretty unpleasant by the end of the day, by the time people had figured out that I was either gay or defending ‘the gay.’ I didn’t break the silence, and I didn’t regret doing it either, but all day I wondered if I would be able to keep it up, living day after day of that. 

“I didn’t see Tyler until the end of the day; we didn’t have any classes together or anything. But he must have heard about me going through with it, because he waited for me by my locker after school…and he was crying, even though he had duct tape over his mouth…and then I started crying…and then we were hugging in the middle of the hallway, and I don’t want to repeat the shit that people yelled at us…and of course we couldn’t say anything back because of the silence, although I think both of us were flipping people off during that hug…and, well, I was out. I was…definitely out.”

“And you didn’t regret it?”

“No.” Eyes still closed, Blaine kisses whichever part of Kurt is closest to his lips. “No. I’m still not sure if that was the best time to do it. But there was never going to be a good time to do it. And…even with all the accompanying abuse, I wanted to be out. I didn’t have to hide all the time. I didn’t have to beat myself up all the time. Ultimately, it was good.” 

“Good.” This time Kurt is the one to twist around so that they can kiss, quickly. 

They smile. 

“Blaine…thank you.” 

Blaine breathes deeply, lets it all rush back out. “Picnic?”

“Of course.” 

 

**July 2011**

“Dave. David. _Escúchame,_ fruitcake. Y mírame—look at me when I’m talking to you, you little shit.” 

“ _What,_ Lopez?”

“Don’t give me that backsass, buttboy. You’re in my house; you play by my rules. Come to think of it, you play by my rules all the time.”

“What do you want, Santana?”

“I _wants_ you to drop that face. Seriously, you look more pathetic than Berry in a reindeer sweater. Come on. …Oh, don’t leave. Jesus. Sit back down.” 

“What? So I can hear about how my face isn’t cheery enough for you? No thanks.” 

“Just. Do. It. …Good. Now. Tell Aunty Tanny what’s bothering that queer little head of yours? Mmm?”

“…School.”

“It’s July, Dave. Why the fuck are you stressing over school right now?”

“You’ve been calling me ‘homo’ all afternoon. What d’you think I’m stressed about?”

“...You know what? That’s it. That is it my friend, I have officially reached my limit on lonely gay angst. You’re joining.” 

“Joining what? The list of people Azimio’s depantsed in the middle of passing period? Yeah, probably. Unless you want to let me grope your boobs at Homecoming or something.” 

“No. Seriously, you think you’re touching these? No. But you _are_ enrolling in Homo Explosion.”

“ _What?_ No—”

“Yes. And _sit the fuck back down._ Good. Now. You’re coming to Glee with me, and that’s final.”

“Santana. No. You just…that’s honestly a terrible idea.”

“No, oh sweet beard of mine. It’s not. You’re cracking up in private in the middle of the summer over this. You’re going to fall to pieces at school. Unless you _deal with it._ And Glee is like the only place to do that, unless you want to start Lesbigay Happy Happy Rainbow Club in your spare time. Is that a no? …Look. You’ve got me, Britt, and Kurt, and it sounds like sweet Porcelain’s boytoy is coming too. It’s like the highest concentration of queers in Ohio. …Besides, your voice is great.”

“Santana, I….”

“What? _What,_ David? You scared of yourself and what you want and who you want, and you don’t want to do a fucking thing about it? Yeah. Been there.”

 

**August 2011**

By the time the three o’clock bell rings on the first day of school, the majority of New Directions is piled in the choir room, talking, laughing, and in Rachel’s case shouting. Will Schuester is sitting backwards on a chair in the midst of it all, laughing along, not even trying to control them. He’s missed these kids. Maybe not Rachel’s screaming, or Puckerman’s incessant profanity. But he’s missed them. 

Will is still laughing when the rest of the room goes silent. He swallows his smile, following the kids’ eyes to the doorway.

There stand Brittany Pierce and Santana Lopez. Normal enough. But they flank the one person Will never thought he’d see within fifty feet of his choir room again: David Karofsky.

“Go ahead,” Brittany tells him. She continues speaking softly into his ear as she nudges him forward using her chin on his shoulder. From Karofsky’s expression, whatever she’s saying is confusing the shit out of him.

After a few moments watching Brittany, Santana clearly comes to the same conclusion, because suddenly she yanks David into the center of the room. “Okay, losers. Oh, wipe that hurt look off your face, Man Hands; I have literally belted a song entitled ‘Loser Like Me’ next to you in an auditorium full of people, so you can shut your oversized jaw for me just this once.” She pauses, glaring Rachel down. Rachel doesn’t storm off or break into song and, apparently satisfied, Santana continues, “Everybody, meet our newest addition, my old beard, David Karofsky.” 

With that, Santana tugs Brittany forward, kisses her hard on the lips, and pulls back before Will can tell her to stop with the PDA. Then she curtsies. (Will hadn’t realized that curtsies could be sarcastic, but Santana manages.) Brittany does some complicated spin that appears to end in a curtsy (Mike claps) before taking a seat in Santana’s lap. 

Leaving Karofsky at the front of the room, alone. 

Will opens his mouth, but second-guesses himself, shooting a look up at Kurt in the top row. He’s holding hands with his boyfriend--the Warblers’ lead from last year--but his eyes are locked on Karofsky’s. They don’t look hostile, though. Just…charged. Confused, Will figures that’s good enough and says “Well, David, welcome to Glee Club!”

Kurt, Blaine, Santana, Brittany, and Quinn clap, and Finn joins in with a confused glance at Kurt before the rest of the club shrugs and follows suit. 

Will sighs, and gestures for their newest addition to take a seat. It may have helped kill his marriage, sapped most of his energy for the past two years, ended his Broadway dreams for sure, and started an epic feud between him and Sue Sylvester, but New Directions definitely made sure he is never bored. It looks like this year will be no exception. 

 

**September 2011**

Dave has imagined this scene a million times. The head cheerleader, the most smoking girl in school, and him, all sprawled across a bed. 

Epic. Every guy’s dream. For sure. (Right?)

“Could you pass the black nail polish? No, no, that’s navy.” 

Yeah…and fuck if he had ever pictured it like this. 

For one thing, Santana’s bed is so obnoxiously large that all three of them are spread across it without even touching, Quinn with her back to the headboard, Santana splayed over the center, Dave himself weighing down the end. For another, all of them are wearing all their clothes, unless he wants to convince himself that Quinn’s discarded socks count. Which he doesn’t because, seriously, that’s fucking pathetic. 

The worst part about all this is that he’s fine with it. He doesn’t have the slightest desire to like…stick his face in Santana’s boobs, or rip off Quinn’s clothes, or whatever the hell he’s supposed to want to do right now. 

For at least the fourth time tonight, Dave sinks his head into his hands with a groan. These thoughts, his old forced fantasies, have been running through his head all night, mocking him. It seems like whenever he’s with Santana, he just ends up thinking about how gay he is the whole fucking time. When she notices—and she’s Santana, so she always has to notice—he tells her it’s her fault, it’s her complete gayness shoving itself down his throat and infecting him. Privately, he figures it’s because he spends the rest of his time pushing everything away, so now, with Santana, when he can let up a little, it just kind of…explodes.

“What’s up in that sparkly rainbow head of yours today, David?” 

Dave glances through his fingers at her. She’s not even looking at him, still painting her nails black, wearing that face that says _fuck yes I’m a bitch have something to say about it?_ But he knows she doesn’t mean anything by it. She never does, when she calls him David. 

He winces anyway, dropping his head further into the private darkness that his drawn-up legs create. There are two routes to run, here. He could fight with Santana. Which is what he usually does. Or—

“I’m just. Freaked out.”

…Or he can do that. 

He hears Quinn shift on the bed, feels Santana go still at his side. Raises his head. The girls quickly look away from each other, their expressions going blank. (Dave is at once sad that he’s not friends with them the way they are with each other and disgusted that he now apparently wants goddamn _fag hags,_ like fucking _Hummel,_ and _seriously_ can his life get any more fucked up right now?) 

Santana recovers first. “Jesus, didn’t think I’d ever get you out of the closet in your head, Dave. Congrats.”

Quinn looks back to Santana, her expression remaining carefully blank. 

“‘Congrats?’ Great, Santana. Thanks,” he answers quietly. 

(Anger used to be easy. He misses that sometimes.)

Santana shakes her head, her bitchface dropping. “No. Congrats on admitting it. I’ve known you were scared since July, remember? Remember, I told you, I _get_ it. But you never said it. So, you know, good. This is progress.”

Dave grunts. Doesn’t feel like progress. 

“You can’t work through a feeling until you acknowledge you’re having it in the first place,” Quinn adds. She’s gone back to painting her toenails, her strokes even and smooth. 

“Yeah?” Stupid perfect, hot, smart, _straight_ Quinn. The fuck. “And what d’you know about any of this, Fabray?”

Quinn caps the nail polish, leaving half her foot unpainted, and tosses it to the side. “We’re past ‘Fabray,’ David. And you know that. I’m your friend. You wouldn’t sit here while Santana and I painted our nails if you and I weren’t friends, because you would be panicking about me judging you and outing you. Okay? So. Stop. Now, to answer your question, no, I have never had to deal with being gay or all the things that entails. But if you think I haven’t struggled…David. Think about what little you know about me. Pregnant girl. That chick who’s living with your beard instead of at home. And there’s plenty more you don’t even know about. So. If you think I haven’t struggled, haven’t been ashamed of who I am and what I’ve done, haven’t hated myself, haven’t questioned everything, haven’t had no idea who I am…you’re wrong.” 

(Quinn is actually terrifying. Dave had forgotten.) 

“Look,” Quinn continues when the other two don’t speak, “I get it. We all get it; we all deal with this in one way or another.” Quinn smiles a little. “You already knew that, though. Otherwise you wouldn’t still be in glee.” 

Well. Santana does get it. He admits that much. And Quinn definitely knows…something. But the rest them? Yeah. No. 

But he remembers _Born This Way._

Maybe, he thinks for the thousandth time since Santana outed herself to him, maybe he’s not so alone. “But how do you—” Dave clears his throat, but his voice is still raspy when he tries again. “How do you deal with it?”

Quinn tilts her head. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know. I don’t think I do very well.” 

“Aww,” Santana cuts her off. “You’re doing fine this year. I mean, you’re still a total ice queen but you’ve stopped actually destroying everyone else’s lives now.”

“Thank you, Santana,” says Quinn with a sharp grin. “Your coping skills have also improved. You’ve stopped screwing your way through the student population. Although I guess half of them aren’t really an option anymore.” 

Dave watches in awe as Santana chuckles, her smile also too sharp. It’s tense, but there’s a certain affection, a certain trust in the way they can say these things to each other, and still sit on the same bed, friends. 

(Dave wonders if that’s what Santana’s been offering him every time she calls him buttboy. He’s pretty sure ‘fag’ is still an insult.) 

Quinn turns back to him, her eyes curious. 

“Yeah, I still don’t know what to do,” he says finally when she doesn’t look away. 

“Come out,” drawls Santana, killing the moment.

“Like you’re one to talk,” Dave snorts, ignoring the way his stomach is turning over at the thought. 

“Not for long,” she answers.

What Santana means doesn’t even register until Quinn smiles—a real one—and reaches over to squeeze Santana’s hand. “You finally decided! Brittany too?”

Santana nods, smiling too.

_What. The. Fuck._

“ _You’re_ coming out now?” Nothing. “Well, fuck, Santana. Why? This is _McKinley_. Nobody’s going to throw you a fucking party. Nobody’s going to be happy for you.”

“I’m happy for her,” Quinn murmurs.

“The point,” growls Santana, “is that _I’m_ happy for me. I don’t want to do the hiding shit anymore. And honestly? I care more about what Britt thinks of me than the rest of you backwards idiots combined. So.”

Dave opens his mouth, about to point out that he’s going to have to slushie her now, because _seriously_ …but then her words run through his head again, and he sits back, stunned. 

It can’t be that simple. He knows it’s not that simple. 

“Look,” Santana begins, “From the number of times Kurt has bitched to me about effectively outing you in glee, I kind of get that everybody has their own time. To. You know. To do it.” 

“The point is…you have to do what makes you happy,” interjects Quinn.

“Like, actually _you_. And actually _happy_ ,” says Santana. “Basically, just be really fucking selfish and you’re set.”

They sit in silence for a moment before Santana uncaps her nail polish again. 

But Quinn is motionless yet. “There’s one thing I’ve learned, David,” she says finally. “And it took a really long time to get through. It took my entire life, actually. But, it’s just…stop caring. You just have to stop giving a _fuck_ what anyone else thinks.” (He’s never heard Quinn swear before. She attacks the word, and it makes Santana smile like a proud mother.) 

They look at him expectantly, and he wants to give them something back. But all he can do is sink his head back between his knees and close his eyes. 

 

**October 2011**

It’s the sixteenth of October, 2011 

Nick takes a deep breath, knocks, and opens the door. It closes softly behind him. 

“Hey,” comes Jeff’s hoarse voice. 

“Hey,” answers Nick. “You lit it already.” He never knows what to say. Damn it.

Jeff nods. 

“Look, are you all right?

Another nod.

“I brought you peppermint tea.”

Nothing.

“I’ll stay with you, okay? Same as always.” 

Nick snags his friend’s eyes, quick before Jeff’s flicker away. 

“Thank you.” 

 

**November 2011**

“Blaine? Blaine, honey, run and get the fresh rolls for me, okay?”

His mother dispatches him into the throngs of family members with a final graceful smile and a little push between the shoulder blades. _Stand up straight, Blaine,_ the push always says. Also, _be upstanding._

Blaine weaves through his relatives with a nudge to the shoulder here and a touch to the elbow there, and a smile, always a smile. If nothing else, his family has given him stage presence. 

His second cousins’ laughter buoys him into the kitchen, where the preteens have gathered around the dessert platters that should be saved for later. Blaine sneaks up behind Kaylee, a gawky twelve-year-old cousin, and says “Hey” into her ear. She shrieks, and the whole crowd dissolves into giggles. “One sweet apiece,” he tells them, mock-stern, before grinning. It’s more than their parents would allow, but much less than they would doubtless consume unchecked; he enjoys striking that balance between child and adult just right. “And make sure they look like they haven’t been touched,” he adds. 

“That was already in the plan, Blaine,” says Kaylee, blushing and proud. Blaine salutes her, and leaves them with a wink (provoking another round of giggles from the girls). The requested dinner rolls are waiting for him in the lukewarm oven. Task accomplished, he tosses the rolls into a basket and pauses for a moment in the kitchen doorway, the threshold between the bright laughter of children and the controlled laughter of adults. 

“Better watch out,” comes a rich voice from his side. “Poor Kaylee won’t know what’s hit her if you keep that charm up.” 

Blaine turns to find his aunt Miranda, an automatic delighted smile already filling his face. “Aunt Miranda!” He draws her into a hug with his free arm and kisses her cheek. “Happy Thanksgiving! It’s so good to see you.” 

Aunt Miranda returns his smile and kiss before guiding him back down the hallway, her arm resting along his shoulders. “So tell me, Blaine, how goes the life of our most promising Anderson?” 

“Our most promising Anderson?” Blaine chuckles as they enter the living room together. “Why, little Bailey is doing well, I hear.” Five-month-old Bailey squawks gaily in the corner, and Blaine waves to her before making his way to the dining table and replenishing the rolls, as requested. His mother flashes him a brief smile before returning to the women encircling her.

“Modest as always, Blaine,” Aunt Miranda laughs, but instead of joining the other women, she settles in, leaning one hip on the dinner table. Blaine recognizes with apprehension the stillness and concentration that could lead to an actual conversation. He does love really talking to people (to his _friends_ , supplies some rebellious crevice of his mind, to Wes, David, Nick, Jeff, and _Kurt_ , always Kurt—but now is not the time to think about Kurt); however, family gatherings are…different. As long as he thinks of them as shows (his home the stage, his father perhaps the director, his mother the stage manager), he’s fine. He fulfills his role with smiles and grace, and ends the night with the tired satisfaction of a lead actor after a splendid performance. 

Unfortunately, real conversations are not conductive to the superficial veneer he needs to maintain for this strategy to be effective. 

“But do tell me,” continues Aunt Miranda obliviously, leaning forward. “How goes your life?”

His suspicions are confirmed. _Damn._

Blaine smiles widely. “Life goes well!” He begins to turn, perhaps to ask his mother if she would like him to fetch anything else, but Aunt Miranda shifts with him, incorporating the movement into their conversation. 

“Your school record is still excellent, I assume?”

“Of course,” Blaine laughs, not bothering to play self-deprecating with Aunt Miranda. “Straight A’s. You know me.” 

“That’s my boy.” She squeezes his elbow with a proud smile, and that’s it—he’s officially stuck. “But I hear—your father mentioned that you’re not attending Dalton Academy this year?”

_Shitshitshitshit._

_This could get messy fast._

“No, no I’m not,” he smiles, trying again to turn to his mother, but his aunt’s palm floats again to cup his elbow, keeping him in place. “I’ve transferred to McKinley High, actually.” 

If you asked Blaine’s aunts and uncles and grandparents about his transfer to Dalton, they would tell you that public high school had not been challenging or prestigious enough for a student of Blaine’s caliber. 

Bullying had never been part of the conversation. His sexual orientation had never been part of the conversation. A broken rib and bruises everywhere had never been part of the conversation. 

All of which made it impossible to explain why Blaine would transfer from Dalton back into the public school system. 

Blaine faces the probable unraveling of his parents’ lies with a sweet smile. His fingers are twitching, and he worries that his aunt will feel the muscles in his forearm jumping to match. 

“Now, if you don’t mind me asking, why—” 

“Miranda! Share Blaine with the rest of us!” 

Blaine and his aunt turn as one, and _oh thank god,_ the circle of women around his mother has ballooned to include them, and Blaine is spared. 

His smile never falters; he turns to his mother. “Mom, did you need anything else?” 

“No, sweetheart, thank you.” 

He shifts to duck out of the circle anyway, thinking perhaps he’ll lead some of the little ones in a game of hot potato. Or if all else fails, he can see if his father needs anything. But his aunt Linda’s voice calls him back. “Blaine! You don’t have a single errand, at _last._ Stay; talk to us! We’ve hardly seen you all evening.” The rest of the women nod, smiling at one another, looking at him proudly. 

“Miranda, you’ve already asked him about school, I presume?” says Aunt Linda. 

“Straight A’s,” Blaine cuts in, a little impolite, laughing. Aunt Miranda, not suspecting the hidden complexity of his transfer to McKinley, doesn’t add anything, and so the praise flows freely from the circle of women, the more probing questions on his education set aside. 

“If we’ve already covered school, then,” Aunt Linda begins, “you know what that means.” Blaine does not know what that means. “Time for the question we’re all really wondering about! Do you have a girlfriend, Blaine?” 

Blaine’s stomach plummets. 

He does not want to have this conversation.

Usually, Blaine likes these family parties, likes playing his part. He just doesn’t like to think too closely about exactly what part he’s playing. In the back of his mind, he understands it exactly: here, he plays the character of himself a little more mature, a little taller, more graceful, overly comfortable, unnaturally happy, playfully intelligent, and straight. Unquestionably worthy of his relatives’ pride.

But he has been out of the closet to himself for five years. Out to his friends and parents for three. He’s not _ashamed._ He doesn’t want to act this part out. 

“No,” he says, feeling his smile stiffen. “No girlfriend.” He snags a glass of water from the table and sips it while his mother’s friends titter among themselves. 

His mother is taking a drink of wine, not looking at him, not steering the conversation away from him. Blaine suppresses a surge of resentment. The strange thought echoes in his head: _It’s time for the next scene. You’re not doing your job._

“Not ready to settle on one girl, Blaine?” winks his aunt Rena. 

“We’ve yet to meet a single girlfriend of yours,” Aunt Miranda points out, still smiling. 

“I can’t help but be curious as to what your type would be, Blaine,” laughs his youngest aunt, Joanne. “I can’t decide whether I expect you to bring home a perfectly poised young woman to match you, or some absolutely crazy girl for some variety.” The other ladies chortle. “Which is it, dear?” Joanne prompts him when he only sips more water. 

_Male,_ he wants to say. _My type is male, actually. And I suppose a combination of poise and insanity. The perfect combination, actually. Named Kurt Hummel._

And damn it, this is not the time to think about Kurt.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” says the part of him that’s still acting, adding as much of a smile as he can muster. (The rest of him huddles resentfully in his gut. God, he’d forgotten how much he hates hiding. And it’s worse, now. He’s not only betraying himself—he’s also betraying his relationship with Kurt. It makes him sick.) Blaine takes another sip of water and nods, trying to extricate himself from the circle, but again Aunt Linda reels him in, this time actually tugging him back by the hand. 

“Oh, Blaine! Don’t do this to us!” she laughs. “And with that mysterious little smile,” she appeals to the circle at large. “You’re graduating this coming May, aren’t you, Blaine? And you’ve already turned eighteen!” He nods. “Well! I simply refuse to believe that a handsome, intelligent young man like you has not yet dated!” 

Blaine feels his stomach swoop again. _I_ have _dated_ , he insists. _I_ am _dating. I am dating the most wonderful young man, Aunt Linda…._

He says nothing. He’s not going to outright lie. And if they thought that his smile before was mysterious, not pained…well, then perhaps they’ll take his silence now similarly. He tries to dredge up some liveliness to put in his face, but he feels so tired now. (And angry. The energy that remains in him is furious energy, the kind of energy that wants to explode out of you in sound and movement, but he’s not doing that now, he can’t do that now, so he pushes that bit away, and then perhaps he can pretend there’s nothing, and he is only tired.) 

“We’re not going to get an answer out of him, are we, Linda?” Miranda is shaking her head, smile still firmly in place. 

“Helen,”—Blaine’s mother—“has Blaine really not dated at _all_? I can’t imagine.”

Blaine’s stomach swoops one final time, the furious energy surging for a moment, and he turns his face to his mother, his face transparent and pleading, _please don’t lie about this, please don’t, please, because I can pretend a little and avoid a lot, but I can’t be in the closet again, not after all this time, not after how much I’ve grown…._

“No, he never has,” confirms his mother, (his mother, who finally accepted Kurt’s help cooking dinner last week, who invited Kurt over for dinner for the first time a month ago, who took a picture of the two of them before they left for Homecoming together). Helen Anderson sips her wine. Blaine looks at her incredulously. “I suppose he’s never found the right girl,” she continues calmly. 

Blaine opens his mouth. Then he snaps it shut. 

A tense moment passes wherein the circle of women realizes that something is not quite right. 

“Excuse me,” Blaine says with perfect calm. 

He gentles his way back through the living room and hallway and kitchen (where the preteens are consuming the dessert platter with gusto) until he gets to the empty back mud room, which connects the back porch to the rest of the house. He closes the door. He stands for a moment in the dark. 

The question is, can he go back in? 

No.

Actually, no, he can’t. 

Blaine buries his face in his hands. One deep breath. Two. Then he grabs his gray pea coat from its hanger and the spare keys from their dish, and goes out the back door. 

It is silent outside except for the dim, indistinct voices emanating from the house. The first snow hasn’t come yet, but it’s well below freezing. Blaine stands in the stillness, trying to calm down.

He should have expected this. This had always been the tacit agreement. Why would his mother out him now, casually, after so much effort had gone into concealing it?

He stands, inhales slowly, exhales slowly, watches his breath disperse into the sky, reasons with himself. It still feels like betrayal.

Some time later, Blaine circles the house, darting past glowing windows, until he reaches his car, thankfully parked on the street in case any errands needed running during the course of the party. He starts the car and lays in the backseat while it warms. His mind is blank: he is balanced precariously between rage and sadness. If he thinks too much, he’s bound to fall into one or the other. Which he can’t do right now. Because it’s Thanksgiving. And he and his parents are hosting the entire rest of their family. Which means that he has to go back inside, and he has to be a good host, and if he doesn’t people will definitely, _definitely_ notice, and he doesn’t even want to think about what disgustingly believable story his parents will tell this time—but god, god, he _cannot_ go back in there. He’s been outside for at least half an hour now, and he still can’t calm down.

God _damn_ it. What is he supposed to do? 

_Knock, knock._

Blaine jumps and nearly concusses himself on the top of the car. He whips his head around, and there stands Kaylee, cradling a steaming mug. 

He takes a deep breath and opens the door. Kaylee slides into the seat next to him, pulling the door closed behind her. “I brought you hot chocolate,” she says, handing him the mug. 

He studies her for a moment (she squirms) before taking it. “Thank you,” he murmurs. 

“Mmhm.” 

He drinks the hot chocolate in whole mouthfuls, letting it burn the roof of his mouth because it’s delicious and he feels defiant. 

He ignores Kaylee’s nervous presence until she turns to him abruptly. “Are you all right?”

A perfect smile. “Yes, of course, Kaylee; thank you.” 

And…wow. Blaine didn’t know that he could switch on quite that automatically. He freezes after he says it, but doesn’t take it back. Maybe she’ll go away. He doesn’t know what to do with her besides drinking her hot chocolate. 

“Okay, that’s bullshit and you know it.” 

Even he has to laugh at that. 

“You’re right,” he whispers, playful. “I do know it.” 

“So. What’s wrong?”

He looks at her, really looks, with her wide innocent eyes and her sparkly green fingernails. “I’m gay,” he says simply. (It’s been at least six months since he’s come out to someone; he had forgotten how freeing it feels.) “My parents know, but they don’t want the rest of the family to know.”

Kaylee is quiet for a long time. He can’t bring himself to worry much. 

“So, what are you going to do?” she finally asks. 

He smiles gratefully, a real smile, and she smiles back. 

“I’m not sure,” he answers. 

She keeps looking at him, expectant.

“I’m too angry to go back inside. My mom—I have a boyfriend, who she knows and likes. And she just told everybody that I’ve never dated and it must be because I haven’t found the right girl.” 

Kaylee winces exaggeratedly. “So, are you just going to sit out here all night?” 

Blaine turns the idea over in his head. “No,” he answers. It’s too cold to just walk around, and staying in the car means that someone will eventually come get him, or at least notice he’s here. 

“Soooo…?”

“You know what? I think I’m going to leave.” 

“Leave?”

“Yeah. Could you go back inside and tell my Mom that I’ll be at Kurt Hummel’s house? Don’t…elaborate, or anything.”

Kaylee salutes him, and takes back the empty mug. “You got it, chief.” 

Blaine grabs her hand as she’s going out the door and pulls her back to kiss her forehead. “Thank you, Kaylee,” he says. 

“No problem,” she answers, blushing again and shivering in the November air. “Really.” 

An hour later, Blaine is pulling into the Hudson-Hummel driveway. Their dining room is at the front of the house, and through the picture window he can see the four of them gathered around the table. Kurt coming out the front door before Blaine has even turned off the car. 

They meet halfway to the door and pull each other into a hug. Blaine can’t tell if Kurt is shaking from the cold or from holding him so tight. 

“Blaine,” Kurt murmurs into his curls. “What happened? Are you all right?”

Blaine feels…drained. His act has dropped, and beneath it is an exhausted, hurt teenager who’s being held by the love of his life. “I think I am, now that I’m here,” answers Blaine. “I just couldn’t stay there. But I’m so sorry to have come, Kurt, on Thanksgiving and everything.” 

“Don’t be,” calls Burt from the doorway. “You’re welcome here; you know that. Now get in here before the two of you freeze to death.” 

“Good to have you, Blaine,” calls Carole from the dining room as the two of them come through the front door, and Finn adds a hearty “Yeah, man!” but Blaine is hardly listening.

He and Kurt are looking at each other, their faces so close that Blaine’s eyes can hardly focus. Kurt’s arms are down by his sides, but his eyes make Blaine feel as embraced as he did the one time they fell asleep watching Avatar and he woke up two hours later, curled into Kurt, warm and safe and home. All Blaine’s breath comes out in a rush like a sob, and Kurt smoothes one cold hand down Blaine’s cheek. The contact tips Blaine forward, their eyes on each other still, their lips a millimeter apart when Burt Hummel clears his throat. 

Clearly, Kurt had also forgotten that they were sharing the foyer with his father. He blushes and steps back a little, but runs his thumb over Blaine’s cheekbone again. 

Burt shakes his head with a poorly concealed grin. “Come on and get some turkey before Finn finishes it off.” 

 

**December 2011**

“You’ve got to be shitting me.” 

“Nope. Definitely serious.”

“This can’t be a tradition. This is just…weird.” 

“Weirder than the Bi-Annual Rachel Berry House Party Train Wreck Extravaganza?”

“Yeah, actually.”

“Dave’s right. At least the Train Wreck Extravaganza is what it sounds like. When you guys said ‘Christmas Party,’ I wasn’t expecting ‘Stalk Our Teacher to His New Place of Residence and Carol Until He Invites Us In.’ To be honest, surprise serenades have never gone well for me….”

“Setting aside Blaine’s tragic history with informal public performances for the moment—I don’t know why either of you is surprised. You’ve both known it all along: New Directions is full of whack jobs.” 

“All right, all right, everyone. Quiet down. Quinn, if you would do the honors?”

All fifteen of them take a breath.

Quinn’s sweet soprano begins: 

“ _Hark how the bells_  
Sweet silver bells  
All seem to say  
Throw cares away”

All the girls join her for 

_“Christmas is here_  
Bringing good cheer  
To young and old  
Meek and the bold…” 

Before long, everyone is singing at the top of their lungs

“ _Merry merry merry merry Christmas  
Merry merry merry merry—”_

Will Schuester’s face appears at the window, and something in his stricken expression kills the rest of the carol. They peter out, watching Schu’s face turn from shock to horror to panic. 

“Well, hi, guys!” His enthusiasm is so fake that even Santana cringes. “Happy Christmas Eve.” he adds when Rachel, the lone holdout, finally gives up on the song. His face is tinged pink. 

“Hi, Mr. Schu!” Rachel answers. 

Kurt, who had zeroed in on Schuester’s sweater the moment he appeared at the window, finally identifies what’s wrong with the article of clothing. It’s not the wrong fit; it’s not an old style—it’s _on backwards_. Mr. Schuester is wearing his sweater backwards. And unless Mr. Schuester usually walks around alone in his apartment wearing his clothing backwards, and Kurt is pretty sure he wasn’t wearing that sweater when they started singing. 

Kurt’s eyes widen, and he snorts into his scarf. Blaine eyes him curiously.

“Look at his sweater,” Kurt whispers to Blaine.

“What?” hisses Mercedes.

“He has his shirt on backwards,” says Blaine in a low, amused voice that’s too quiet to carry to Schuester’s second-story window. 

Mr. Schuester’s face is steadily turning red, quickly surpassing the reddest any of them had ever seen it. And they’ve seen him screaming in rage. Also crying. 

“Oh my god,” breathes Finn. 

And, well, it has to be said: “Was he having sex?” asks Artie. 

“Um. _So,_ ” Schuester starts again after an awkward pause. “What are…what are you all doing here?”

“We thought that, after that debacle with Ms. Pillsbury, you were bound to be all alone at Christmas yet _again_ this year, so we decided to just kind of…invade. And, you know! Bring you some holiday joy!” Rachel is wearing her show-face smile. 

“Yeah,” adds Santana, her voice heavy with sarcasm, “No one deserves to be _all alone_ at Christmastime, do they, Mr. Schu?”

Mr. Schuester’s face is steadily surpassing the shade traditionally depicted on Santa’s suit. 

“That’s…that’s right, Santana.” 

“So, in the holiday spirit, we were wondering if you would like some company tonight?” Clearly, Rachel is still completely oblivious. Finn tugs at her shoulder, but she only wraps herself around his forearm like a koala. The rest of the glee club looks on in horror and fascination. “I baked Christmas cookies in the shapes of symbols from a variety of religious traditions!” 

“Maybe we should call _this_ the Rachel Berry Train Wreck Extravaganza instead,” whispers Mercedes. Sam chuckles. 

“Um, Rachel, you see—while I would love to have all of you come—I mean, love to get all of you up in my apartment—I mean, love to have a real New Directions party—” at this point Blaine dissolves into giggles and is quickly followed by Kurt “—I. Well. I’m not….” 

“Let me put you out of your misery, Mr. Schu,” Lauren says at last. “You don’t want any _more_ company right now, do you?”

“Actually, Lauren, you’re right. Thank you. So.”

“Why is his face turning into a tomato?” mutters Brittany. “I thought Miss Holliday said that doesn’t happen, not even in Veggie Tales.” She turns to Kurt, the nearest boy. “Your penis isn’t going to turn into a cucumber, is it?” 

Kurt, who had been trying to recover from his laughing fit, takes one look at Brittany’s solemn face and collapses against Blaine, muffling himself with the other boy’s scarf. 

“That’s not how that works, sweetie,” whispers Santana, rubbing Brittany’s back. Then, a thought occurs to her. A thought about sex. And, as Santana’s thoughts about sex usually do, it surpasses what little internal filter she maintains and comes straight out her mouth. “Oh my god, he’s not—”

Dave claps a hand over her mouth and uses his free hand to reach across about five people and smack Finn in the shoulder. (Santana is struggling for freedom, but he has long since realized that she doesn’t actually hide razor blades in her hair, although she is vicious with her nails. And her words.)

“Oh, right,” says Finn, tearing his eyes from their hot mess of a teacher and shaking Rachel off his arm. “Everybody!” Everybody turns to look at him. (Except Schuester, who hastily shuts his window and yanks the curtains together.) “Um…change of plans!”

In the end, they make a new tradition. They pile back into three cars and drive around Schu’s neighborhood, caroling with the windows down. They shiver against each other when the wind chills them and turns their hymns eerie. Eventually, half of them ignoring calls from parents demanding holiday family time, they follow Finn and Kurt back to the Hummel-Hudson house for hot chocolate. Hot chocolate quickly turns to talking and gossiping (and speculating on what, or who, Mr. Schuester had been doing in his apartment), which in turn devolves into Rock Band until, at one a.m., Burt Hummel comes down to tell them that he’s glad they’re such good friends, and their voices are just great, really, but they need to get out of his house and back to their own families. They sing a final song (at Rachel’s insistence, but if they’re being honest they were all thinking about it), hug and kiss goodbye, and leave, knowing that this, too, is family.

 

**January 2012**

At the stroke of midnight, Kurt and Blaine kiss. 

Later, when the kiss slows and ends, Blaine strokes his thumb over Kurt’s eyebrow and murmurs against his lips, “another year.” And Kurt breathes, “Blaine, I told you: I’ll never say goodbye to you.” 

Later, much later, when the first grey edges of sunlight are finding their way past the horizon, Blaine presses him back into the bed and answers, “I love you. Always, I love you.” 

 

**February 2012**

“Hold my hand, Britt.” 

“We _are_ holding hands.” 

“No, for real. Like at home.”

“Okay. …Wait, Santana, what about the secret game?”

“I don’t think I want to play the secret game anymore.” 

“That’s good. I never liked the secret game.” 

“Me either, sweetie. I’m sorry I made us play for so long.” 

“That’s okay. So can I kiss you now?”

“You know what? Sure.” 

 

Later:

“So, you’re homo explosion’s new flame, huh, Santana?”

“She must be hardcore. Seriously, dude, not even my dick could fuck the lesbian out of her.” 

And:

“Hey, Pierce. You’re big on rainbows now, right?”

“Because we thought it might be appropriate if you got a slushie in every color today. Whatcha think?”

 

Later again: 

“I told you it would be like this, Santana.” 

“ _Shut the fuck up,_ Karofsky. And get me a goddamn towel.” 

“I can’t get you a towel. _God,_ it’s bad enough I’m in the women’s bathroom. I told you I wouldn’t be able to help.” 

“David. Brittany just got _fifteen slushies_ thrown on her. I’m _not_ cleaning her up with the shitty paper towels they put in here. Her face with be _raw. Get me a goddamn towel from your goddamn locker room._ ” 

And: 

“Santana? Will it always be like this?”

“Oh…oh, sweetie. I don’t know.” 

“Is this why we played the secret game? Should we play it again?”

“Brittany…I don’t want to play anymore. I just…I love you. Do…do you want to go back to playing?” 

“No. I hate the secret game.” 

“Good. Here, honey, you still have some green in your hair. Lean forward.”

 

Later, one more time: 

“Santana. I don’t know if I can do it. Like. Ever.”

“David. Can I be honest with you?”

“You’re honest with everyone. Painfully.”

“No, I’m really not.” 

“…Well. Sure, then, be honest.” 

“Even though I feel like _shit_ right now, it feels better than before. It’s…like Blaine said. A relief.” 

“…I don’t know.”

“Oh my _god._ Seriously. Just do it. I do not want to go to your fake, disgustingly heterosexual wedding in five years. I will cry, and I’m not shitting you. Literal fucking tears. Also, I’ll kick you in the balls and make out with your bride.” 

 

**March 2012**

“Could you do it right now?”

It’s one of those rare nights that Santana is hanging out at Dave’s house rather than the other way around. Apparently Santana’s house is currently a war zone between her much older brother and their parents. Quinn has happily evacuated to spend some time with Mercedes and Kurt, and Santana is, well…here. At his house. On his bed. 

He’s pretty sure his parents thinks they’re together. He’s done little to disabuse them of the idea. Their prom picture is on the refrigerator. 

Dave spins his desk chair around, neglecting his statistics homework for the moment. “Do what?”

“Come out. Duh.” 

He spins back. “Stop being so fixated. Jesus.” 

He is forcibly spun back around. 

“I’m serious. If not now, then when?” 

As soon as he actually considers it, he starts shaking. Embarrassed, he clenches his hands into fists to hide it. Then he shakes his head and holds out his twitching hands for Santana to see. 

“I can’t. Look at me. I can’t.” 

She tries to wrap her tiny hands around his. “If I can, you can.”

“You’re braver.” 

“I don’t deny it. I’m a boss, and a hot piece of ass. But you can borrow some. Bravery, I mean. Hell, if that’s the issue we can just get Blanderson to text you more often.” 

“Yeah.” 

Santana sighs and tugs him over to sit with her on his bed. They sit for a while, holding hands. 

“Better?” Santana asks finally. 

Dave nods. 

“Ready to go for it?” she prods, squeezing the fuck out of his hands. Santana sucks at comfort.

He opens his mouth, ready to tell her he’s scared out of his mind, ready to tell her to just shut up already, to go back to her physics homework, to sext Brittany some more if she really has to. But someone knocks on his door, and a second later his dad steps through to find the two of them holding hands rather intensely in bed. 

“Oh, sorry, you two. …Is everything all right?” 

Santana nudges him to face his dad. 

“Dad, I—” He can’t finish. What is he even _doing_? It’s like his lungs suddenly have 5% their normal capacity. Deep breath. Stand up. “Could I—” _breathe, Dave, jesus_ “talk to you and mom?”

_This is not happening this is not happening oh god what am I doing holy shit holy shit holy shit shit shit shit shit_

“Sure,” says his dad, shooting him a quizzical look. “Now?”

Dave chokes on nothing. 

“Yeah, right now,” comes Santana’s voice. 

Now his dad looks _really_ confused. “All right. Well, David, your mother’s in the kitchen….” 

Dave follows his father out the door. He sends a panicked look back to Santana, but whatever expression she has doesn’t even register. He might be going into tunnel vision. _Oh god I can’t even see straight fuck fuck fuck why am I doing this—_

They’re already in the kitchen. His mom is peering into the stir fry, and his dad takes a seat where he always sits. It’s all so normal. He feels like he’s about to tear apart their whole world. And his world. 

And _oh god_ there’s no going back from this. It’s one thing to be outed to New Directions, where half of them are gay in the first place, and he won’t have to see any of them after graduation, if that’s what he decides. This is different. These are his _parents._ He can’t take this back. Once they know, they will _always know._ They will never look at him the same. Nothing will be the same.

The shaking is back.

His dad must have said something, because his mom turns down the stove, leaves the stir fry, and takes her seat at the table. 

They look up at him expectantly. 

He opens his mouth, and what comes out is: “San—Santana.” 

He’s not actually sure if he’s trying to explain or calling for help. 

When he doesn’t elaborate, his dad says “What about Santana, David?” 

“I—I—”

His jaw is shaking so hard that he can hardly speak. _Oh my god I can’t do this I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t I can’t._

He turns, snatches the car keys from the countertop, and disappears. 

Later, when his dad asks what’s going on, Dave will tell him that he and Santana aren’t together and hope they assume he’s distraught over a nonexistent breakup. 

Later, when Santana bitches him out for leaving her at his house before pulling him into an obnoxiously tight hug, he’ll cry until he’s gasping for air.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd love to hear what you think in the comments.


	3. The Family Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally posted in September 2011 here: http://aes-nox.livejournal.com/2648.html

**Thursday April 5, 2012**

“I want to do the Day of Silence.” Kurt strides into the girls’ bathroom, towel slung over one shoulder. “Here,” he adds as he slides the lock shut. “At McKinley.” 

It’s hard to tell if Blaine, who has ducked his face under the running faucet, is covering his face with his hands or just cleaning his face of slushie very, very thoroughly. 

Kurt decides to give him the benefit of the doubt, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet as he asks “Well? What do you think?”

“How in the world did you decide,” gargles Blaine’s voice as he emerges from the sink, “that the best time to tell me is when I’m covered in slushie?”

“Oh, please,” scoffs Kurt, abruptly nervous, tossing the towel he’s fetched at the back of Blaine’s head. “I got the worst of it out before. Besides, I’m starting to think you don’t actually mind getting slushied.”

“Kurt, I’m just going to paraphrase you for a moment. Is ‘bitchslapped by an iceberg’ ringing any bells?”

Kurt scoffs again. “You _bought_ that icy monstrosity and carried it through the halls, drinking it with a _swirly straw_.” No answer. “That’s like yelling, hey! I’m a glee loser, complete with ready-made slushie! Torture me!”

Blaine pauses, the towel obscuring his expression. “Kind of like those knee-high Docs scream, hey! I’m a flaming homosexual! Torture me!”

Kurt freezes. When the towel finally slips from Blaine’s face, Kurt says quietly, “That’s not the same, Blaine. And it was like this before I was out, anyway. Not that I should have to justify myself to you.”

Blaine squeezes his eyes shut, and he turns away from the mirror to face Kurt. He opens his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

Kurt remains frozen, arms wrapped around his own waist, calves and throat clenched.

Blaine sighs explosively. “Really, Kurt, I didn’t. I love the way you dress—you know that. And I know it’s not your fault, how the idiots at this school treat you. It’s just…this is a hard week, with my dad and Regionals coming up and now this stupid slushie…. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have directed any of that at you.”

Kurt is still.

“Should I leave?” Blaine asks softly, taking a hesitant step toward the door and into Kurt’s personal space. Slushie drips from behind his ear. 

Kurt slowly lets out the breath he’d been holding. “No,” he answers, reaching out to rub the blue syrup off Blaine’s neck. “You should finish washing up.”

Blaine tucks his lips between his teeth for a moment, looking at Kurt, before turning back to the sink.

“I’m sorry too,” Kurt admits, arms clenched tight around himself again, his eyes trailing softly over Blaine’s damp cheekbones, his lips. “I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. You’ve had enough abuse for the day.” 

“I just don’t want to let it get to me, you know?” Blaine explains, his voice low, his eyes downcast. “I like blue raspberry slushies. I don’t want to avoid them just because some jackass might use them against me.”

And that’s just so… _Blaine_. For all that he has grown and changed in the past year or so, sometimes Blaine is still that boy who told Kurt Courage, Courage, Courage. Kurt shakes his head, reluctantly amused. “You do realize that you’re presenting a stunning argument in favor of doing the Day of Silence, right?”

Blaine meets Kurt’s eyes in the mirror. “I’ll do it with you, if that’s what you want,” he says. “That was never in question. I just want you to know that it won’t be…pleasant, like it was at Dalton. It will be….”

“Hellish?” Kurt suggests. “Maybe. That’s a distinct possibility.” He steps closer to Blaine, resting his cheek against his boyfriend’s curling hair. “I want to do it anyway. If it’s not happening in places like McKinley, then what’s the point? And…maybe it’ll do some good.”

No answer. Kurt can’t blame Blaine for being skeptical. Blaine’s experience with bullies involves broken bones and transfers, not terrifying Neaderthals metamorphosing into glee-club-joining gay mentees. 

“It did for you,” Kurt points out finally. 

Blaine buries his face in the towel one last time, and Kurt presses closer for a moment, resting them together chest-to-back and cheek-to-cheek. Then he steps back, pulling the towel gently from Blaine’s face. 

“You’re right, of course,” Blaine murmurs. He squeezes Kurt’s hand once, and they pick up their books and unlock the door and rejoin the rest of McKinley.

 

**Thursday April 12, 2012**

They win Regionals. 

Two days before, they’d had nothing prepared, too busy dealing with the usual drama over solos, Schuester’s latest disastrous pursuit of Ms. Pillsbury, and baby Beth’s second birthday (no one has contacted Shelby Corcoran since the adoption, but still that date pulls them all back to their first year together in glee, the confusion and the heartbreak and the problems too big for anyone to face alone, though they’d all sure as hell tried). 

Still, the win is no surprise. They’re well versed in pulling together spectacular performances in days, hours, sometimes minutes, and anyway, Aural Intensity has never had their passion, and the Warblers hardly stood a chance after Blaine joined New Directions.

When it’s over, Rachel is clutching the trophy to her chest even though it’s nearly as tall as she is; Lauren is retracting (for at least the third time) her old insistence that show choir competitions are stupid; Dave is yanking Santana and Brittany into one huge hug so that Brittany can stop pouting and instead peck Santana’s lips, once, well hidden behind his broad torso; and soon the tide of people shifts and the fifteen of them pour out into the lobby, laughing and singing and—

“Nationals!” screams Rachel. It’s as close as someone her size can get to a war cry (pretty damn close, anyway, considering her impressive lung capacity). They all pile together, arms around shoulders and waists, hands clasping hands, hair tangled together, a mess of happily indistinguishable limbs.

Later, as they all break apart, Kurt and Blaine remain wrapped around each other for just one extra moment, two seconds at most. Mr. Anderson catches sight of them, frowns. As soon as they notice their exposure, the boys step apart, blushing identically and looking for their families. Mr. Anderson opens his mouth, and the set of his jaw says he’s angry though his eyes say he’s embarrassed, but in the end Kurt and Blaine don’t have to navigate Blaine’s parents because Burt Hummel steps forward, hand linked with Carole’s, and invites them all to late-night ice cream to celebrate the boys’ win. Mr. Anderson’s disapproval disappears beneath courtesy, and Blaine and Kurt hold hands beneath the table at the ice cream shop, squeezed tight together because they’re sharing one bench with Finn. It’s a good night.

 

**Friday, April 13, 2012**

The next day in glee, Kurt manages to get out half a sentence about the Day of Silence before Rachel launches herself out of her chair with an almighty shriek. (“ _NATIONALS_!” It’s becoming something of a habit for Rachel. This time it’s so piercing that even Zizes flinches.) Kurt considers fighting her for the floor (he only needs two minutes, maybe five or six if they seem receptive and he gets into some basic outfit coordination for the day itself). But all it takes is a look at her expression, which if pressed he would describe as ‘dangerous unbridled lust for victory,’ and another at the rest of the glee kids, who look exhausted and wary, to convince him that today is not the day. He surrenders the spotlight to Rachel Berry, just this once. 

 

**Monday, April 16, 2012**

Nick has just convinced himself to actually concentrate on the _Beowulf_ essay that’s due tomorrow when his phone buzzes once on his bedside table. Before it can buzz again, it’s in his hand. 

_Nick?_ it reads.

It’s from Jeff. Jeff has known Nick’s phone number by heart since Nick got his first phone in sixth grade.

Nick grabs his keys, locks his door behind him, and presses _call._

He’s on the highway, almost halfway to Jeff’s house, when the other boy finally stays on the line long enough to explain. What comes out is: 

“They’re not here, Nick. They’re just…not here.” 

“What—you mean, you’re the only one home?”

“Yeah.”

“But—today—”

“ _I know_.” Maybe it’s a growl. Maybe Jeff’s voice is just rough from crying.

Either way, Nick doesn’t know what to say. His foot twitches against the gas pedal.

There’s a shaky exhale from the other end. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have texted you. I know this is never…fun for you.” 

“It’s not supposed to be fun,” Nick answers. “Look, I’m like 25 minutes from your house, so just hang in there, okay?”

“You’re—?”

“I left about thirty seconds after you texted me, Jeff.” The light ahead is red, and Nick coasts to a stop, running his hand over and over the steering wheel’s familiar contours. “Do you need anything?”

“…Actually…could you…maybe pick up some flowers? Just plain white flowers?”

“Yeah. Yeah, there’s a grocery store like two lights from here.” 

The other end is silent.

“Is that okay? Do you need me to find a flower place, or…?”

“No. Just. Thank you.” 

The light turns green, and Nick accelerates much too fast. “Of course.”

* * * 

Later, they sit, gravestone cool along their spines. The flowers Nick bought rest atop the stone alongside a bundle of freshly-picked marigolds, which had been there when they arrived.

They sit until Jeff’s breathing evens out, until the sun has drifted out of sight, until their toes are numb with cold and stillness. Some time after the night sky has spread itself horizon to horizon like a blanket, Nick stands and offers Jeff his hand. 

The other boy’s fingers burrow into the ground at the base of the headstone and come away muddy. Then he opens his eyes, pulls himself up. They leave together. 

Later, Jeff lays spread-eagled on his bed for hours before sleep comes to take him down into forgetfulness. Nick fights sleep as hard as Jeff pleads for it, and finishes his _Beowulf_ essay at four in the morning. 

 

**Thursday, April 19, 2012**

Kurt smoothes the poster down until it’s perfect. 

He knows that this one 8.5 x 11 sheet serves as both a basic announcement and as an invitation for trouble. He’d debated with himself all week. This is his decision: the announcement is up. He’d gone through all the logistics, gotten permission from Figgins, had emails sent out to the teachers…. So, why not? Why be silent if no one even knows what they’re doing? Isn’t the point to raise awareness, to help other kids? To hell with it. 

Kurt nods once, satisfied, and exits McKinley.

* * * 

8:12 p.m.  
From: Blaine  
To: New Directions, Mr. Schuester  
New Directions! The Day of Silence is tomorrow. Hope all of you will participate—it would mean a lot to Kurt and me. Feel free to contact me if you have questions or if you’re on the fence about it. See you all soon!

8:14 p.m.  
From: Santana  
To: Blanderson  
do you know how hard it’ll be to keep Brittany quiet for 24 hrs? jfc, blanderson. 

also, you’re picking up my dry cleaning bill for this shit.

8:14 p.m.   
From: Artie  
To: Blaine Anderson  
So in. Glee bros stick together.

8:16 p.m.  
From: Brittany  
To: Kurt’s Dolphin  
santana says i can only make quiet dolphin sounds tomorrow. no words. 

she said you would explain

8:17 p.m.  
From: Mercedes  
To: Blaine :)  
You mass-texted me? Have some class! 

You KNOW Kurt has been figuring out my outfit for this all week. :)

See you and loverboy tomorrow, Blaine. <3 

8:20 p.m.  
From: Finn  
To: Blaine  
totally dude. see you in the a.m.

8:25 p.m.  
From: The Zizenator  
To: Blaine Anderson  
I got this, Anderson.

8:32 p.m.  
From: The Puckasaurus  
To: Dalton   
making an exception to my nothing but sexts after sunset rule. i’m in. you know i got your back. 

8:40 p.m.  
From: Sam  
To: Hobbit (boy)  
I’m in. :)

9:00 p.m.  
From: Tina  
To: Blaine  
Mike and I’s lips are sealed. Night, Blaine!

9:03 p.m.  
From: Rachel ★  
To: Blaine Warbler  
Give up my voice?!?!?!?!?!?! ★

JK. Do you realize how many times Kurt has lectured me about this? ★

He came to my house, Blaine. ★

My house where I live with my two gay dads. ★

It was blackmail! Underhanded tactics! ★

Anyway, I’m doing it. Of course. I hope you realize what a momentous sacrifice this is for me, especially before Nationals. ★

Goodnight! Love you both! Hug Kurt for me; I probably won’t see him until Glee! ★

11:02 p.m.  
From: Blaine  
To: Kurt <3  
Goodnight, sweetheart. Picking you up tomorrow? 

11:03 p.m.  
From: Kurt  
To: Blaine <3  
Yes please. :) I love you. Goodnight!

11:03 p.m.  
From: Blaine  
To: Kurt <3  
I love you too. See you in the morning!

 

 

**Friday, April 20, 2012**

1:10 a.m.  
From: Dave  
To: Satan  
Are you doing it?

1:10 a.m.  
From: Santana  
To: Fruitcake  
dave, i swear to grilled fucking cheesus that if you’re trying to sext me right now i will feed you your own balls. 

our bearding days are so over

ok srsly what are you talking about?

1:11 a.m.  
From: Dave  
To: Satan  
the day of silence

obviously

Christ, Santana. Only you would jump to sexting.

 

Dave lunges for his phone— _UUUUNA LOBA EN EL ARMARIO, TIEEENE GANAS DE SALIR AAOOOOOOO_ —before it wakes up the entire house. Shit, Santana has to stop changing that ringtone….

“Talk, Karofsky.” 

Dave gives his phone a weird look before putting it back to his ear.

“ _David_.”

“What? _You_ called _me_.” He falls back into his beanbag chair with an almighty thump.

“Yeah, and _you_ texted me. At one in the morning. Blanderson texted us about that shit like five hours ago, what—” 

“So you’re not doing it, then.” Relief nearly chokes him. He drops his face into his hands.

A pause. Then: “Oh, fuck you, Karofsky.” 

Relief turns to panic. 

“What—?” 

“Of _course_ I’m doing it. What the fuck? Do you _kno_ w how much Kurt and Blaine have helped me with—with things with Brittany? No, fuck it, with _being a lesbian_? Do you _know_ how much _shit_ the two of them have been through? Oh wait, yes you do, because _you_ are the one who put Kurt through hell.” Her voice drops from a shriek to a venomous hiss as she continues, “You know, it’s one thing to not be ready to come out, I get that, _I get that_ , but—wow. You are an absolute shitbag. After everything they put up with from you, after all they’ve done for you, _desgraciado,_ you’re not going to do the one thing they’ve asked for? What is wrong with you?”

“I—I…”

“I thought we were a _family_. You know what, fuck you. You either show up and I better not hear so much as a whimper from you, or don’t bother coming at all.”

Click.

Half an hour later, when Dave’s ringtone goes off again, he’s still slumped in his beanbag chair, clutching his phone. He stares at it for a second, muffling it between his palms, before answering.

“Hey, David.”

“Quinn? …Did Santana talk to you, then?”

“No. She just screamed at you loud enough that I couldn’t really avoid hearing.” 

His stomach sinks, if possible, even lower. “Oh. Sorry.”

“She’s just scared, you know,” Quinn offers. “She’s nervous about tomorrow. And Santana doesn’t really do vulnerable, so….” 

“…Yeah.” And that doesn’t mean that every word she said isn’t true. 

“Dave, I’m serious. A few hours ago she had Brittany come over just so she could cuddle with her and cry. …Look. I called to say that I’m doing this, and I’m straight. The whole glee club is doing it, and most of us are straight. We’re going to get crap about it, but no one will actually think that _all_ of us have turned gay, not with Mike and Tina’s daily makeout in the hallway after third period. So you’re not going to out yourself, if you do it. I thought you should know that.” 

“…Okay. Well. Thanks.” 

So Quinn thinks that he would have been considering doing it even if it meant definitively coming out. All the fight goes out of Dave, and he hangs his head between his arms. What do they (Santana, Quinn, Kurt, Blaine, Brittany, and the rest of New Directions too, who have against all odds have accepted him into their family) see in him? Or who do they see? Whatever it is, whoever it is, he doesn’t see it. He is a hopeless terrified stupid closet case, and he doesn’t know how to fix it, can’t even think about fixing it without a rush of fright. 

Quinn’s voice continues faintly from above. “I won’t hate you if you don’t do it, Dave. Nobody will, not even Santana. I promise. We know this is hard for you. Okay?”

Dave is biting on his fist to keep from crying. The Fury, now a pacifier for a seventeen year old fag. Fuck. 

The sharp disconnect between who he was and who he is startles him. 

Shouldn’t that mean something? 

But the thought fills his body with dread; his stomach twists its way down to his feet. 

He is nauseous. He is weak.

And again ringing in his head: 

_You shitbag, fuck you, I thought we were a family, you’re the one who put Kurt through hell, what is wrong with you?_

Thinking about not doing it makes him nauseous, too. 

He lets out a sob, and maybe Quinn hears and maybe she doesn’t, but she say anything until he manages a “Yeah” between gulps of air. 

“Goodnight, Dave,” is all she has to offer before the line goes dead.

* * * 

**5:54 a.m.**

Blaine lets himself back into his house. The crisp morning air has made him flushed and cold, but his head is clear.

Now if he can just stay like this, Blaine thinks as he shuts the door behind him. If he can stay calm and content and so, so grateful for the past two years, for Kurt, for the fact that he isn’t going into this alone….

But:

“Blaine?”

His father is standing in the foyer, sporting the trademark Michael Anderson morning look: pajamas and Bluetooth headset. 

Anonymous voices jabber through the earpiece. Blaine waits, frozen like prey beneath his father’s gaze. When the other man’s eyes flicker from Blaine to some spreadsheet on his iPad, Blaine shrugs and slips past him into the kitchen. 

That should be answer enough, if his father has a conference call this morning.

(Blaine ignores the thought’s bitter aftertaste and concentrates on being grateful that his father is so busy. It’s a good thing, today. It _is._ Because how would he explain this, anyway, saturated as it is with things that Michael Anderson does not accept? Today _is_ Blaine’s sexuality, his openness about that sexuality, his need to help Dave and Santana and anyone else through this, his transfer to McKinley, his relationship with Kurt…. It is all of these things, incommunicable and intimate as they are. He has no explanation to offer a man like his father.) 

But the peace that took Blaine hours to win is gone now; the anxiety that plagued him through the night is back. Blaine makes himself toast because he doubts he’ll be able to keep anything else down for long. He’s just finishing the last careful bite when his father appears in the doorway, tugging out his earpiece. 

Blaine’s stomach plummets.

“Blaine, what were you doing outside at six in the morning?”

Blaine takes his time chewing his toast, feeling his father’s eyes on him. Once he swallows, his last excuse for not answering is gone, so he grabs the nearest legal pad from the counter (pulling off the top sheet, a list of simple recipes written in his mother’s even cursive for these few days she’s away on business) from the counter and scribbles _Just walking around. Not far._

His father reads it over his shoulder and gives him this look that’s a mixture of confusion and disapproval (an expression that he’s wearing more and more often around Blaine). “And you’ve also stopped talking?”

Another surge of bitterness surprises Blaine; he tries to shove it aside. It won’t help here. 

_Calm and reasonable, Blaine. That’s worked better than anything else for years. Come on._

It would be easy to say something like ‘I’m sick’ or perhaps ‘resting my voice for choir.’ His father doesn’t really get his love for music either, but he has long since accepted it. He’d even seemed to enjoy New Directions’ performance at Regionals. 

Blaine’s pen hovers over the notepad. The word COURAGE flashes in his mind’s eye, an idiotic mental replication of Kurt’s collage. (Kurt had moved it to his room at home: it is the only permanent component of a bulletin board otherwise dominated by outfit possibilities and elaborate homages to Alexander McQueen. Blaine still smiles whenever it catches his eye.) And so Blaine rolls his eyes at himself, at this entire situation, before scrawling _Today is the annual Day of Silence against LGBTQIA bullying. Clearly, I’m participating._

“…Ah.” is his father’s response. This is much less complicated than Blaine had dared hope: he flicks away the notepad with gusto, but then the older man continues, “So, you’re… _out_ there, too, then? At McKinley?”

Blaine pulls the papers back. He writes: _I have been in the closet in exactly one place since April of my freshman year, and that is this house, when relatives or coworkers are over._

He thinks about adding something else, something dramatic, inadvisable, cathartic: _Did you know that I was out at McKinley before I even went there? Yeah, I think slow dancing with Kurt after he was voted Prom Queen in front of the entire junior class might have done it,_ or _I won’t ever be in the closet again anywhere ever again, or It’s so funny how you stifle me more than an entire high school’s worth of homophobic morons._ But in the end, he swallows the anger and the bitterness, because they won’t do any good here, and he knows that, he’s learned that and learned it hard; he tells himself _patience_ and presses the last note into his father’s hand on the way out the door.

* * * 

**7:00 a.m.**

—! 

Kurt is out of bed before the blare of his alarm even registers. He stands for a moment, still tangled in his sheets and blankets and duvet. As his pounding heart calms, the rushing in his ears dissipates, and he hears Finn groaning and creaking his way awake next door. He blinks slowly, fights his way out of his bedcovers. 

Finally, the day has begun.

Near the door sit his backpack and three changes of clothes folded and stacked neatly in a bag. On his nightstand, his phone blinks with a good morning message from Blaine, who has to get up half an hour earlier than Kurt to make it to McKinley on time. (Though if Blaine is nearly as anxious about today as Kurt is—and Kurt knows that Blaine is—he’s probably been laying awake for hours now. Kurt himself has been startling himself out of dreams since 4 a.m.) Kurt’s eyes slide to the COURAGE collage still pinned to his bulletin board. 

Well. He’s as ready as he’ll ever be.

Kurt washes and dresses in a silent, slightly frenetic haze before heading downstairs. If he’s lucky, Finn won’t be burning eggs instead of scrambling them, or exploding instant oatmeal in the microwave. 

The prospect of a breakfast disaster bothers Kurt more than it normally would, and he inhales deeply, trying to delay the anxiety until he’s at school and has a real reason to worry. But, for once, what greets Kurt in the kitchen has nothing to do with his stepbrother’s culinary ineptitude.

“Kurt! Come take a seat.” 

Carole is smiling at him from the stove, where she is making a few eggs without risk of an impromptu bonfire. Kurt’s dad and Finn are at the table, splitting the first batch of pancakes.

Slowly, Kurt exhales. 

A strange, surprising peace washes over him as he stands there, so profound that he closes his eyes for a moment before smiling at Carole and taking his seat at the table.

He thinks: _Look at this. Look at me. Look at my life._

He’s finally out. His father loves him just the same. His disastrous crush has long since turned into a new family that Kurt, secretly, couldn’t love more if he tried. His most horrific bully is becoming a kind of friend. He’s been to New York, and it lived up to his ludicrously high expectations. And he’s in love with the most wonderful boy, who loves him in return. 

Back when all this started—when he was in the closet, when he fell for Finn, when he was being bullied by David, when he met Blaine—he never would have dreamed that life could be like this. Maybe when he was twenty-five in New York…but no, his fantasies about New York used to be so limited, more focused on his skyrocketing stage and fashion careers than on his family or friends or lovers or even, really, his day to day happiness. 

His present has never been this happy before. His future has never been more hopeful.

Kurt’s eyes, stupidly, well up right there at the breakfast table, and he covers his mouth with a hand, biting back both laughter and tears. His dad interrupts with a troubled “Kurt?” and Kurt laughs then, and he cries too, waving off his family’s concern with a smile that he won’t try to explain without words and likely wouldn’t be able to explain with them.

* * *

**8:00 a.m.**

Dave is laying in bed, fully dressed. He’d gotten up as usual, dressed, eaten…. But he’d known since talking to Santana that he wouldn’t go to school today. And, sure, whatever, maybe he’d thought about it while going through his morning routine, but…. Honestly, getting ready this morning had been mostly for show, so his parents would leave for work, thinking that he was just running late, not skipping.

So now it’s a waiting game. His mom has already left, so all he’s waiting for is—yes, there, he can hear a car in the driveway; his dad must be leaving. 

Dave doesn’t move. He doesn’t plan to move or speak until maybe dinnertime. Or maybe never, if the dead feeling in his chest doesn’t go away. He closes his eyes. 

He drifts….

_Snap._

Dave’s eyes shoot open, and inexplicably there stands “Sant—!” but she smacks her hand hard over his mouth. (Has he broken the silence, then? Does half a name count? He can’t tell if he feels guilty or not; he’s too busy with the dull ache that settled in his chest some time in the night, and weird distant panic, and Santana’s manic expression.) His phone buzzes on the bed, and Santana nods to it without taking her narrowed eyes off him. 

Eyes watering from Santana’s slap, Dave slides his hand across the bedspread until he feels the smooth plastic of his cell, thinking that it would be unsafe to break eye contact with Santana right now. Like she’s a mountain lion or a snake or something. He worries about the razor blades fabled to be hidden in her hair for the first time in months.

One quick dangerous glance at his phone explains Santana’s presence: 

To: Dave  
From: Satan  
You’re coming. Let’s go.

* * * 

**8:30 a.m.**

Santana steps into Spanish, punctual for probably the first time all semester. (Whatever. She could ace this shit sleeping, which is basically what she’s been doing since freshman year, because hey, why not sign up for an automatic A+? The only downside is that Schuester does require that she actually show up to class. So here she is.)

She’s not going to broadcast this or anything, but stepping into Mr. Schuester’s classroom is the first time she’s relaxed since Blanderson’s stupid text the night before. Mr. Schu may be clueless, and a little pathetic (especially with Ms. Pillsbury, because _seriously_ just tap it already), and a _lot_ of a manwhore…but Santana respects him. He’s decent to her, to them, even though they’re just ‘kids’ or whatever. Plus he can do serious justice to Vanilla Ice, which she will never admit to his face. And, most importantly, he tries. Sure, he fucks up almost daily, does the same lesson plan like a hundred times and nearly gets them disqualified from shit and pushes them too hard or not enough or gives in to Rachel’s ridiculousness. But, as ready as Santana is to go all Lima Heights Adjacent on his ass over all of those offenses and more…really, none of it matters, looking back. What she remembers, what she respects, is that Mr. Schu actually gives a fuck about them. 

So if there’s one place she knows she can just chill the hell out today, it’s Schu’s Spanish class. And after a morning like this one? She needs this. Otherwise someone will be going home one nut short today. She doesn’t know how Schu is planning to get anything done without his voice; she guesses he’ll just hand them some sickeningly huge stack of worksheets that her bilingual brain will race through in about ten minutes. And then maybe she can catch her usual nap…or continuously text Brittany reminders to keep her mouth shut…or maybe she’ll just sext Brittany for an hour instead, because whatever, that should keep B occupied enough that she doesn’t talk, right?

Santana settles into her seat. She is so ready for this shit.

“¡Hola! Buenos días, clase.” 

…

Oh.

Hell.

To.

The.

No.

Of course the _one_ thing she’s not prepared for, the one thing she hadn’t even considered—because she’d prepared herself for slushies and catfights and indifference and everything that Britt could possibly get up to which is honestly a lot and— _everything_ —but _what the fuck Schuester._

What the fuck.

Schuester and his sweater vest and his disgusting gelled hair and his goddamn smile and _what the fuck._

She can’t believe it. He’s not doing it? 

Her fists clench around the legs of her desk.

If he were a student, she would slap him across the face. 

Where does he get off, thinking he can blow them off like this?

What does he even think—

That he has too much to lose, being silent with them? Because he sure as fuck doesn’t have more to lose than Dave, than Santana herself. Whatever he thought it would risk losing, well, she hopes it’s worth more than her respect.

Or does he think that teachers aren’t supposed to do this? Well, fine fucking time for the man to start caring about what is or isn’t appropriate—maybe he could’ve thought about that before that ballad lesson. Or, you know, Rocky Horror. Or the infamous Britney Spears sex riot assembly. Seriously.

You know what, fuck him.

Because his _place,_ if he actually does give a damn about it, is with them. And he knows it.

“¿Señorita Lopez?”

Santana has spent the first fifteen minutes of class ignoring the lesson, staring at her fists, clenching them so hard that her fingers have gone cold and white. Now she looks up. She meets Mr. Schuester’s eyes.

Her glare is so violent that he takes a step back, his friendly expression faltering.

Her tries to recover. “¿Señorita Lopez? ¿Si pudieras, escribirías unos ejemplos en la pizzara?” 

Santana stands, flexing her bloodless fingers. 

She’s not entirely sure that she isn’t about to assault a teacher.

Because if there had been any uncertainty about exactly what is going on here, it’s gone now. Schuester knows. She’d figured in the first place that Blaine had likely texted Schu along with the glee kids, and there’d been little doubt that Kurt had managed to squeeze in a lecture for Mr. Schu because Kurt had definitely ‘educated’ the fuck out of the rest of them throughout the last week. But this is confirmation: Schuester never has students write on the board. He insists that they have enough practice with spelling on tests and papers, that in class it’s essential to practice _pronunciación._

So of course he would call on her and tell her to write. Because he knows that she’s not talking today. 

Santana holds Mr. Schuester’s gaze for the entire walk from her seat in the back. (She’s never understood the expression ‘cut the tension with a knife.’ If she had a knife now she wouldn’t be using it on the tension.)

Schuester continues lecturing once she’s at the board, but she doesn’t hear it. She doesn’t even know what she’s supposed to be giving examples of. Fuck if it matters, anyway.

Her stiff fingers can hardly grip the chalk. Her letters come out harsh and spiky.

She writes:

_No creo esta mierda. ¿Eres nuestro enseñador? Que nos dé un ejemplo que merezca nuestro respeto. ¿Nos preocupa en absoluto, cabrón? Por lo que se puede ver—_

“San _tana._ ” 

Mr. Schuester’s voice is shocked, and shockingly close. She removes her hand from the blackboard, letting the chalk drop and shatter on the ground. 

“Siéntate, Señorita Lopez. Y ven a mi oficina durante almuerzo.” 

Mr. Schuester erases her words methodically, not commenting on them, before continuing the lesson. 

Santana wraps her fists back around the legs of her desk and tries not to scream and tries not to cry and wonders when someone will start to care about them. 

(Someone who matters, someone who has some power, someone who could maybe change things.)

And, yes, maybe if things were the way she wished then they, she and Brittany and Dave and Kurt and Blaine, wouldn’t be a little queer family. She would regret that. But maybe they wouldn’t _have_ to be. 

Kurt would have never feared for his life and Blaine wouldn’t have that scar across his ribs and Santana herself would never lay awake at night wondering if it was time yet to stop worrying about Dave killing himself. And she could kiss Brittany everywhere, all the time, and see her smile afterwards and not worry about anyone taking the smile off Brittany’s face. 

Why doesn’t he want that?

* * * 

**9:40 a.m.**

It’s second period, AP World History, and Blaine isn’t even trying to pay attention.

Ms. Jefferson seats alphabetically, but ‘Anderson’ and ‘Hummel’ align such that Blaine is seated just in front of Kurt. (Lucky, since this is the only period they share besides Glee.) This provides ample note-passing opportunities, and also ensures that neither of them ever learns anything during small group discussion. 

But it’s still lecture now, and lecture is a different story. During lecture, when entire civilizations are often covered in under ten minutes, entire epochs of human history blazed through in half a class period, they both usually focus. And since absolute silence is always the rule, there’s no reason that today should be any different.

Blaine watches his pen trace nonsensical spirals across his otherwise impeccable notebook. Today _is_ different. 

If Blaine tries to pin it down, he thinks it’s an awareness of Kurt, just behind him and to his right. But that’s too passive, really: Blaine’s entire right arm, his side and every link in his spine, his right leg from hip to knee to ankle, vibrate with attention. It’s like half his blood cells carry a slight electric charge, like a finger is grazing the tips of the tiny invisible hairs covering his skin.

The only other times he’s felt anything like this are those scattered hours that he and Kurt have spent with just each other, wrapped together so thoroughly and for so long that Blaine’s reality resolves itself, simplifies itself into Kurt’s eyes, Kurt’s laugh, Kurt’s scent (which is more like home than anything else)…. 

This sensation now, Blaine decides as he watches his pen continue its absurd journey toward the left margin, is not identical. It’s not physical enough: nothing can quite match the warmth of holding his boyfriend, or that barest whisper of Kurt’s lips on Blaine’s throat, or the way they sometimes just listen to their heartbeats mingle.

But that delicate, fundamental awareness, the way that everything but Kurt seems irrelevant and _other,_ is the same.

Blaine smiles, because it is, after all, beautiful. 

(It is, after all, love.)

He lowers his head and chances a look over his shoulder.

Kurt is trailing his eyes over everything he can see of Blaine—Blaine feels his skin prickle as his boyfriend’s gaze follows the line of Blaine’s shoulder before meeting his eyes. They both smile.

The sharp _click_ of chalk against the blackboard breaks the mutual haze; Blaine’s eyes shoot back to his pen.

He spends the next ten minutes inching his chair backwards so that, by the time Ms. Jefferson launches into the Second World War, his right elbow sits on the leftmost corner of Kurt’s desk. Kurt leans the back of his hand against Blaine’s arm, and there they rest, missing everything they could have learned about Vichy France and the Kiev offensive and the Atlantic Charter and the Yalta Conference in favor of relearning each other’s silence.

* * * 

**10:31 a.m.**

Dave doesn’t ever catch them near each other, not outside Glee—but today is different, of course. 

He’d hurried out of second period. Calc II. He’s usually pretty outspoken there—why not? Might as well show off once a day, rule one classroom for one hour…. But today he didn’t raise his hand in Calc at all.

(He noticed Mr. Hendrick’s eyes dart to him every few minutes, saw that repeated shift from automatic expectation to disappointment. Then, near the end of the period, Hendrick’s expression changed to something between suspicion and understanding, and all the muscles in Dave’s gut clenched…. Yeah, he’d gotten out of there before the bell was even done ringing.)

Dave hasn’t decided to do it. 

He hasn’t decided not to.

He flows through his routine, foreign and strange as it seems in silence, hyperaware of everything. (After Peterson, a linebacker, high-fived him in the hallway, he panicked for the rest of the passing period, trying to remember if they usually say anything to each other. Does he ever talk to people in the halls, in his classes? Can he get away with a nod? Will people start being suspicious? _They will if your face says you’re freaking the fuck out, David, Jesus._ ) He continues, follows each step through to the next, because what else can he do? It’s fear or guilt. Rejection or disappointment. He edges between…. 

And that’s fine, everything is fine. Because it’s not like he really needs to speak today. Why should that be a big deal, one kid not talking? 

That’s not such a big deal, right? 

Not a big deal at all. He doesn’t have to make a thing out of it.

He’s caught them, though: he watches them leave Ms. Jefferson’s room, the slight quirk in Kurt’s eyebrow, casual, the twitch in the corner of Anderson’s lip, casual, but their eyes say love, he thinks, maybe, (they say _something_ , anyway, something that’s not _see you later, man_ ,) and their fingers brush, linger too long, parting only with the greatest reluctance.

People are side-eyeing them, just for that, just for a brush of fingertips. Like half the people in the hallway. 

And. Well. 

It is a big deal. Isn’t it. 

The silence.

He watches their last quick glance, watches some jerk shove past Kurt, knocking his shoulder much too hard to be unintentional, watches Kurt’s expression leap from soft to furious to resigned….

It’s just a big fucking deal.

The decision is over before Dave even processes it, and his gut constricts again but then, finally, settles. 

That’s it, then. He’s in this with them. He is silent today.

(He digs for his phone. He doesn’t even rebuke himself for wanting to text Santana so badly.)

“There he is!” A heavy shoulder knocks into his own. Azimio. “Hey man, you are not gonna believe what shit is going down today.” 

Dave opens his mouth. 

Dave closes his mouth.

“No guesses? No, I hear you, it’s too fucking early be out of bed let alone in this hellhole, but I gotta say after Beiste’s two-a-days all first semester, I got so much energy I don’t even know what to—anyway, man, listen, it’s the greatest fucking thing today.”

Dave raises his eyebrows.

“It’s like Fairy Oppression Protest or something—I don’t know, don’t ask me, ‘cause I just heard from Rodriguez. Apparently none of the homos can talk, and Berry’s got her face duct taped, which I personally think is an improvement, but that’s just my opinion. Anyway, I got a whole fucking rainbow of slushies, man—” and he does, too; Dave had been studiously ignoring them for the whole conversation, just like all the other slushies Z has carried throughout this school year “—and you gotta do it with me; I know you’re all buddy-buddy with Homo Explosion now, and that’s cute—actually it’s a cause of concern for me, man, but I’m just looking out for you, as you know. But not today. They’re _begging_ for it. And you know I am more than happy to keep some order around here. Gotta help me out. Like old times, am I right? Now, we hang a left here, probably catch that blonde dyke—” Z stops terrorizing passing freshmen with slushie fake-outs, turning to look at Dave, offering him the two slushies in his right hand. Pink and purple. “Here you go, man.” 

Dave meets his old best friend’s eyes and shoves his hands into the pockets of his letterman jacket. 

“Dave, come on. You haven’t slushied a kid this entire year. You can’t make one exception?” 

Dave shakes his head. 

Z stares. 

“Holy _shit,_ ” he declares. “You’re not talking. You’re doing it with them. You _are,_ aren’t you?”

Dave shrugs and nods. 

Azimio cracks up. “I can’t believe—you’ve gotta be kidding me—Jesus Christ, Karofsky,” he says between chuckles. 

He’s still laughing when he adds “Enjoy, man” and tosses two slushies into Dave’s face. 

The cold hits hard—he had never even considered, never even thought, ohmygodholy _shit_ is he cold—and he nearly shouts _What the fuck?_ at Azimio, but he chokes it back so it comes out like a gag or, worse, a sob, and distantly he hears Z still laughing. He gets his eyes open, knuckling the stinging syrup across his cheeks, seriously considering punching the shit out of Azimio. (And fuck, why did it have to be pink and purple? He even has to be slushied just like a goddamn fairy?) But then—

Then, Puck—Puck, who’s been in juvie, who glared at Dave for the entire first quarter in glee, whose mouth is covered with silver duct tape—has already taken Z by the lapels of his jacket, is slamming him against the nearest lockers. (When Azimio tries to break away, freaking Zizes comes out of nowhere and slams him back against the metal with an almighty clang. Shit, Dave knew he liked that girl.)

Dave has to look away when more syrup starts dripping into his eyes; he tries to ignore the stares of every kid in the hallway, tries to remember where the nearest bathroom is. He’s angry, sure, but Puck and Zizes can clearly handle Azimio…and Dave mostly just wants to get this crap off his face, get people’s eyes off him… wash his jacket before it’s stained fucking pink forever, Jesus Christ….

He’s taken one step back into the crossroads when Anderson and Santana materialize, fall into step on either side of him without a word, and escort him to the nearest bathroom. Santana follows them in and bodily turns Dave to face her. She pauses. Then she launches herself at him, clinging around his neck, her stiletto boots off the ground, her perfectly straightened hair getting syrupy. She sobs into his neck, and he can’t say anything, wouldn’t know what to say anyway, so he just wraps his arms around her back and lets her cry. 

When her gasping dies down and she shoves her way back to her own two feet, Anderson is standing there offering him a wet washcloth. Dave takes it with a weak smile. It’s warm and feels clean and calming against his freezing skin. 

They let him clean himself off (probably guessing correctly that helping would only make him feel even more pathetic), but they stay in the bathroom long after the bell rings, shoulder to shoulder. Standing guard, maybe? Keeping him company? Either way, they calm him. By the time he’s gotten all the slushie off his skin (and has given up on getting the pink off his jacket without the help of a dry cleaner), he feels better than he has all day. 

He turns around. Santana grins, and maybe she’s still a little puffy around the eyes but her grin is full-on bitch. She leans up and presses a solid kiss to his cheek before spinning on one perfectly spiked heel, patting Anderson’s cheek condescendingly, and leaving. Anderson, to Dave’s surprise, doesn’t go out with her. He steps forward, into Dave’s space, and pulls him into a hug. Dave goes completely still; Anderson seems oblivious, not at all awkward even though Dave is just standing there, frozen, not hugging him back. A few seconds later Anderson steps back, holding Dave’s shoulders. _Thank you,_ he mouths, before following Santana out the door.

* * *

**11:01 a.m.**

Emma is just washing down her pill with a sip of water when Will barges through the door, one hand pulling at his hair and the other gripping a piece of loose leaf with ragged edges.

She focuses on his face instead of the little paper crumbs that the loose leaf is shedding onto her carpet. Will barely offers a “Morning, Emma” before asking if she can spare him some guidance and launching into an impassioned rant.

She reorganizes her pens by color instead of increasing size while he speaks. (“What did she expect? I mean, how can I effectively teach a Spanish class without speaking a single word of Spanish? Let alone trying to teach _glee_ without making a sound. I can’t just shirk my job like that….”) Finally, when it seems he’s in the home stretch, she tosses them all into a drawer and watches him.

“—and after she did show up, she sat there and _filed her nails._ The whole time! She filed her nails as I’m trying to teach her about respect. I just don’t know how to get her to understand that what she did, what she’s doing, is not okay behavior. And she didn’t even wait for me to dismiss her. Five minutes in, she just stands up, hands me this—” he brandishes the paper “—and walks out.” 

Will offers it to her and she takes it carefully, smoothing it out on her desk.

Yes, there’s Santana’s messy mix of cursive and print. Emma reads it ( _I thought you cared about us_ and _I don’t know what you’re so afraid of and I don’t owe you an apology, you owe us an apology_ ) as Will continues “I just don’t know how to get through to her.” 

Emma looks up at him again, and does not know whether it is attraction or affection or pity twisting through her stomach.

She pulls her favorite stationery out of its drawer. _I think that, if you want to understand how to get through to her, you have to consider where she’s coming from,_ she begins. 

“Emma?” Will says, and _oh,_ he is studying her. She wishes sometimes that she didn’t enjoy his attention quite so much.

She blushes, flustered, but grins despite herself and holds up one finger: _Wait_ is the silent command. Will drops heavily into one of the chairs facing her desk. 

_She feels betrayed,_ Emma continues in her neatest printing. _It’s really hard for kids here to trust adults. You wouldn’t believe how many kids I could help who just won’t let me because I’m sitting behind this desk, not next to them in class._ She purses her lips and glances at Will before adding, _Santana has never felt comfortable enough to ask me for help. The fact that she feels betrayed means that she trusted you in the first place, and that is important. She disrespected you, twice, but you also violated her trust, even if you didn’t intend to._

Will is still watching her as she caps her pen, straightens the stationery into a neat pile, and hands it to him. 

He reads about a sentence before looking up again. 

“Does this mean you’re doing it, too?”

She nods. 

He looks back to her stationery, frowning. 

If he’s still confused, she decides, there is more he needs to hear. She pulls out another piece of stationery. 

_They don’t want just any adult, Will. They want you. I do the Day of Silence every year, sure, but I do Red Ribbon Week and drunk driving awareness and Chastity Club too. Besides, they don’t care about me the way they do about you. They’re your kids._

_As far as the Day of Silence itself, you just have to put it in context: what are you really trying to teach these kids? What is it most important for them to learn, and what is the best way to give them that lesson?_

She hands him this last sheet, and he takes it, smiling faintly, before walking out the door.

* * * 

**11:04 a.m.**

Blaine looks on in concern as Santana makes her way across the cafeteria. So far she has flipped off an entire table of hockey players and shoved a few oblivious freshmen out of her way. Now some other hotshot is mocking her and (ooh, even Blaine saw this one coming) she’s kicking his precariously tipped chair out from under him. 

Blaine, Mercedes, and Sam actually applaud as she halfheartedly flips off one last heckler before collapsing on to the bench next to Blaine. She takes a slight sardonic bow to answer their grins and shrugs off the arm Blaine tries to put around her shoulders. It’s already halfway through their lunch period (where had she been, anyway?) and it doesn’t look like Santana is going to eat anything. Mercedes reluctantly offers her some tots (the only food left on Mercedes’s tray because she’d been savoring them) as Blaine texts _You okay?_

Santana pops a tot in her mouth (Mercedes watches the other girl chew with an intensity bordering on obsessive while Sam shakes with silent laughter and runs a soothing hand up and down his girlfriend’s arm) just as her phone lights up. She rolls her eyes at Blaine, whose phone is still in his hand, before answering him: _fanfuckingtabulous._

Blaine slips his arm around her shoulders again and squeezes, not letting her shift away this time. He wishes, not for the first time, that Brittany shared their lunch period. Also Kurt.

His phone vibrates, and Santana must be the best in-class texter in all of McKinley because although her hands are folded neatly on the table, and her phone is tucked just as neatly into her bra, the message is from her: _i’m fine, blanderson. and get your arm off me. i know you whore for cuddles like puckerman for milfs and schu for sweater vests, but now is not the time._

_seriously tho i’ll be fine_ pops up over her first message, but he hardly has time to read it before yet another text comes through, followed by another…and another…and another….

Santana, still stuck under his arm, is staring at his continuously vibrating phone like it’s something obscene.

Blaine opens the first one. It’s from Nick. Blaine is glad to hear from him, since he’s one of Blaine’s only good friends who’s still at Dalton. But it’s strange that Nick is texting him now, during the school day (which actually makes a difference at Dalton) when they haven’t talked in about a week. 

He opens the first message. 

_Hey Blaine,_ it reads. _Hope the DoS is going well @ McKinley. I’m doing it here this year so Jeff doesn’t have to go it alone. That’s actually what I wanted to ask you about…._

Blaine frowns, opening the next message. _Jeff’s obviously having a pretty tough day. Well. It’s been a tough week, tbh. Just…bad. Seems like nothing I do is helping. Not to put a ton of pressure on you_

_or anything, but I was wondering if you could come over to Dalton tonight, just hang out with us? Thinking maybe a change of pace could help._

_Kurt can come too, of course._

_And of course I completely understand if you already have plans etc._

_Just let me know._

Blaine sits back, still cradling his phone. Santana—he’d forgotten about Santana—elbows him in this side. _What was that?_ She mouths, giving his phone an exaggerated look; he realizes that she has been reading all along, has read the whole message. 

He shakes his head. He loves the New Directions kids, he really does, but people at McKinley just don’t have any _tact._

(Across the table, Mercedes nearly takes out one of Sam’s eyes when he snatches her last tot, and Blaine can hear, distantly, the screeches of a gaggle of freshmen band geeks being slushied. He almost laughs aloud—he’s worried about tact, of all things.)

_We’ll be there_ , he texts Nick. 

When Santana nudges him again, the _what was that?_ still hanging between them, he texts her _Someone who’s not fine._

* * * 

**11:32 a.m.**

Kurt is smiling, probably smiling more than he has in McKinley’s halls since the first day Blaine transferred when he refused to let go of Kurt’s hand for even a second during passing period (despite multiple slushies and even more tardy slips). 

Kurt practically sprinted out of French to avoid Azimio, who had somehow managed to sneak an entire tray full of slushies into class without a single comment from their teacher. Hardly three steps out the door, Kurt ran into Mike and Puck, both of whom high-fived him. (And Puck has _duct tape over his mouth._ This is the lowlife who used to throw Kurt into dumpsters, now giving him a solid friendly punch to his bicep and smirking through duct tape.) 

Yes. Kurt is happy.

Rachel, really, is the icing on the cake. He sees her in the crossroads about half the time this passing period, and he’s ecstatic when they run into each other today because Rachel has taped her mouth in rainbow. Rainbow. She’d probably broken into her New Headbands savings piggybank just to get that many shades of duct tape. The sight is enough to make Kurt choke back laughter and hug Rachel and then pick her up, spinning her around and around in the hallway. 

He sets her down and they exchange playfully dignified cheek kisses and go their separate ways. 

Kurt has the best friends the whole damn world. Even if they’re all a little strange. Because they’re all a little strange.

Standing at his locker, he scribbles something to that effect on a spare sheet of looseleaf before tucking his books into the crook of his elbow and closing his locker. He’ll give the note to Rachel later, maybe, he thinks, grinning like crazy again because _rainbow duct tape,_ god he can’t wait to tell Bl—

_SMACK._

…

Damn.

Slushie sluices down his spine, ice cold and sticky. Kurt forces himself through the shock of it (why is it still always such a shock?), enough to swipe the syrup away from his eyes, glare at the kids with the empty cups. 

It’s hockey players, four of them, still laughing, patting each other on the back, saying shit to him as though he hasn’t already heard every variation on ‘fag’ ever to cross into Ohio. Kurt is ready to give them the castigation of their year (it would feature several words over three syllables—poor little puckheads wouldn’t even know what he’s calling them—) before he remembers that he can’t talk today.

He settles instead for the most thorough glare he can manage with four different flavors of slushie dripping down his face. Then he turns back to his locker. 

The combination is much more difficult when he’s shivering and furious and embarrassed and sticky. 

But he’s fine. He’s _fine._ He expected to be slushied much earlier than this, if he’s being honest.

At least he had the good sense to bring several changes of clothes. 

At least he’ll only miss his lunch period, not AP World or something horrifying like that.

At least he has friends, now, who care that this is how he’s treated. Who will duct tape their mouths and high-five him. 

By the time Kurt makes it to the nearest girls’ room, there’s something like a smile tugging at his lips again.

* * * 

**11:36 a.m.**

“Hey, Fabray!”

Quinn turns, one eyebrow raised—

And is met with a face full of slushie.

And another.

And another.

She chokes on the cold before forcing her eyes back open. 

Everyone in the hallway is staring.

Azimio stands before her, holding several empty, stacked slushie cups. He’s laughing; he’s talking about how far she’s fallen and probably other things too, Beth maybe except thank God that name never got out, but it doesn’t matter because Quinn isn’t listening.

Quinn sets down her books.

Everyone is still watching.

She takes off her sweater—it’s ruined anyway, and she has a short sleeved shirt on underneath—and wrings it out over Azimio’s shoes. 

Azimio stops talking.

They’re still watching.

She hands him the sweater. He takes it.

She twists her head sideways and wrings her ponytail out over his shoes, too.

Azimio steps back, apparently breaking free of his shock, throwing down her sweater, snorting once before he turns to walk away. 

She grabs his bicep, though, and yanks him back to face her. 

Wipes her hands off on his letterman jacket.

Everyone is still watching. She shoots the entire hallway a disdainful glance, smiles at Azimio (he doesn’t see, too busy gaping at his jacket in horror), picks up her books, and beelines to the nearest girls’ bathroom.

But the nearest girls’ bathroom is inexplicably locked, and Quinn feels something like shame or maybe panic for the first time: no way in hell is she walking all the way across the across the science wing to get to the next closest bathroom. Not dripping three different colors of slushie. She pounds on the door until it opens one crack, revealing a familiar eye—

She squeaks when Kurt yanks her inside before locking the door again. _Sorry,_ he mouths to her, wiping some dripping slushie from her forehead, but she waves him off. He’s dressed in his usual painted-on skinny jeans along with a clean white T-shirt; she can see his ruined clothes crumpled sadly in a plastic bag and a clean shirt hanging from the corner of the sink. His hair is clean but unstyled: she’s seen him like this all of once before, just a glimpse one morning in New York when he snuck past her to get to the shower, and she hadn’t realized how young he looks, how vulnerable.

(They’re all so much more vulnerable than they like to pretend.)

She shoves the worst of her syrupy hair behind her and pulls him into a hug.

He stays with her the rest of the period, first helping her clean herself off, then fetching a change of clothes from her locker, then just keeping her company. She suspects that he is as reluctant to rejoin the rest of McKinley as she is. Once her hair is mostly dry, he braids it into something complicated and gorgeous and crown-like, and when the bells ring they hug again and Kurt presses a wrinkled, slushie-stained piece of loose leaf into her hand.

* * * 

_Thank you all for doing this. You are the best friends I could ever ask for._  
\- Kurt Elizabeth Hummel

_I want to thank you all, too. You are my family.  
-Q_

_You guys are the best. (And Kurt—you bet your ass we are!)  
-Mercedes _

_:) Guys, I’m glad we did today.  
-Sam_

_I love our family  
-Brittany_

_I love you guys too  
-Finn_

_Do you guys remember that week we were all in wheelchairs? Today feels like that. Basically, we’re the shit.  
-Artie Abrams_

_You guys are the best people I’ve ever met.  
-Mike Chang_

_Guys. What the fuck. Reading this is making me grow a vagina.  
-The Puckasaurus_

_Ignore Puckerman. He was sobbing his eyes out when he read this. I’m seconding everything all of you have said, btw.  
-LZ _

_I don’t even know who I’d be without you guys. You really are the best friends ever.  
-Tina Cohen-Chang_

_All these messages are so touching! This almost makes up for the trauma of voluntarily suppressing my voice for 2_ agonizing hours. Like many of you, I would like to say that I love you. You guys are really the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and that includes meeting Patti LuPone.   
-Rachel Berry ★ 

_I don’t know how to thank you guys. That you all participated today means the world to Kurt and me. And I want to thank you for welcoming me into your family. This year has been amazing.  
-Blaine Anderson_

_What Quinn said. I love every one of you crazy losers. Whatever, it’s April of our senior year, I’m not gonna deny it.  
-Santana_

* * * 

**3:29 p.m.**

Dave had made it through the night (horrible because _Santana_ ) and the wakeup (terrifying because, seriously, _Santana_ ) and the morning (anxious bordering on panicky) and the slushie (infuriating) and the afternoon (confusing as hell) and he thought he’d gotten used to the rhythm of today, all these swings, this insanity, (it’s just that he doesn’t usually feel this much, not so much so different so quickly,) but he was wrong—he was definitely wrong, he knows, because this stained and creased sheet of looseleaf has brought him to a whole new level of overwhelmed. 

He doesn’t even know what he’s feeling anymore. At least during afternoon classes when he was all over the place, from fright to pride to embarrassment to discomfort, he could follow himself through it; he understood what was happening to him. Now there’s too damn much to pin down: shame and joy and pride and belonging and separateness and—it doesn’t even make sense, put together like that.

He reads it through again. He wishes he weren’t in the choir room because the choir room is steadily filling with the people who are making him choke back something—laughter or tears he’s not sure—and really it’s uncomfortable more than anything to be so close to the people who make him feel so much. 

He doesn’t know whether he wants to duck out, get some air, put himself back together, or stay here with them. 

A distinctive clicking rhythm snaps Dave out of his indecision for a moment, and yes, there is Kurt entering last of all with Anderson at his side, and Dave is standing before he decides to stand and he’s pressing the paper back into Kurt’s hands. He watches Kurt read it, watches the other boy’s face shift and soften and color. Kurt looks up at Dave and opens his arms. 

They’re hugging.

Dave has never hugged anyone like this before, his whole body slumped forward and apparently it was tears he’d been holding back because he’s lost control of himself and they’re both crying. He’s clutching Kurt and they’re crying and he doesn’t even know why. 

Dave’s equilibrium is gone; something teeters in his head and falls, or maybe shifts; he feels solid, whole, strange; outside he reels back but meets more warmth and pressure: the rest of Glee has joined the hug, Anderson with his arms stretched around Kurt’s waist and over Dave’s closest shoulder, his face tucked along Kurt’s neck, Santana latched onto Dave’s back, and Brittany clinging to her, Artie with his cheek pressing into Quinn’s side, Quinn herself bracketed by Lauren and Sam, and the rest of them pressing in, too, Dave’s sure, he can’t see far enough through his tears, yes, all of them fit neatly, warmly together. Dave blinks away tears and watches Quinn’s eyes drift shut. His own sting as he follows suit. 

They breathe in their family; they breathe in the things they do for each other. Dave could stay here forever. 

And that’s when Will Schuester enters the room. “All right, guys—guys?”

Their teacher has frozen in the doorway, his arms frozen wide in mid-gesture. The moment stretches, suspended; Dave absorbs the warmth and silence (the acceptance, really,) of them before they drift apart, reluctant, hands clasping shoulders and lips pressed to hair. Blaine gives Dave a final squeeze, and Kurt joins him, and Dave lets out one more shuddering breath before stepping back. (Dave wonders vaguely why this group hug thing isn’t a tradition, because really it’s a lot less traumatizing than the various Train Wreck Extravaganzas he’s endured.)

Finn’s the first to sit, but when Rachel curls into his lap rather than sitting primly at his side like usual, the tightness that had crept back into Dave’s shoulders leaves him. Following Finchel’s lead, the rest of them ignore their usual seating pattern, clustering close together, exhausted from a day spent at war with the school. Puck is tucked under Lauren’s arm with his feet propped on one of Artie’s wheels; Kurt and Blaine sit so close that Blaine is actually half in Kurt’s chair. Quinn sits at Dave’s side and takes his hand with a smile, and Santana sprawls into the other seat near him so that she can lean her head heavy and sure on his shoulder, but it’s an end seat, so Brittany settles herself on the floor, arms wrapped around one of Santana’s legs, head pillowed on her girlfriend’s thigh. 

By the time they’re all settled in, looking for the world like some strange (read: happily incestuous) family about to watch a long, sleepy movie, Mr. Schuester has written “NATIONALS” in broad strokes across the whiteboard and is beginning some lecture about motivation and teamwork. Rachel sits a little straighter on Finn’s lap, and that’s about the only effort any of them make at paying attention. 

Schu gives up on them half an hour later, telling them they’ll have to practice extra hard for the next few days to make up for today. (Rachel whirls around, nearly falling before Finn steadies her, and gives them a terrifyingly emphatic nod.) 

They all get to shuffling themselves up and out; Kurt is gently peeling Blaine’s fingers out of his belt loop—at some point his boyfriend slung an arm heavy around his back and slid his fingers through to keep it there—when Mr. Schuester adds “And if I could speak to you, please, Kurt.” 

Kurt straightens fully and nods to Schuester. The rest of the club drag themselves out, most still leaning on their significant others, or in Brittany’s case slung dead asleep across Santana’s back in what looks like the most comfortable piggy back ride ever. (The rest of them look on in horror and fascination as Brittany half-chokes Santana with her clingy tightly-wound arms only to be petted fondly rather than dropped and subsequently bitched out. Kurt himself is a titch surprised, but then, after all the talks he and Blaine have had with Santana this year…not so much. Kurt’s sure that Blaine would agree, were his boyfriend not sleepily nuzzling into Kurt’s hair, oblivious to his surroundings.)

Kurt nudges Blaine up, urges him half-awake and adorable out the door on Dave and Quinn’s heels. Then he turns to Mr. Schuester.

Schu is fidgeting on his stool at the front of the room. Kurt wonders whether he’s supposed to sit back in a student chair or stand.

He hops onto the piano.

“Kurt, I…” begins Schuester, swiveling to face him. His teacher takes a deep breath. “I wanted to apologize. You told me, last year, that I let homophobia slide just like everyone else at this school. I don’t think I really gave that the thought it deserved. …I’m trying to do right by you, all of you. And Santana and Ms. Pillsbury helped me see that I should have done the Day of Silence with you guys today.”

Schuester finishes, glances down to examine his palms.

Kurt is still warm from being close to Blaine, tired still too but mostly warm, a far cry from his usual McKinley attitude (Patented Kurt Hummel All Fabulous All the Time). Maybe that’s why, instead of dismissing Schuester’s apology as shallow or ill-timed or insincere or any of the million other things he would typically notice and unravel and disdain, he only lets his head tip to the side. The warmth must show in his face because when Mr. Schue looks back up, his expression melts into relief.

“Are we okay, Kurt? I really do support you—and of course Blaine…and Dave and Santana and Brittany.” 

(Schuester seems surprised at how many names are coming out of his mouth, Kurt thinks. Maybe he didn’t even realize there were so many queer kids in glee club. That makes him grin, and if the grin has a bitter edge, so be it.)

Kurt gestures for a pen and paper, which Schuester hands over. Thank you for apologizing, he writes. _You’re right: it would have meant a lot to us if you would have done it. But that’s your choice. However, because you said you wish you would have, I want to ask if you would sponsor a DoS campaign here, annually. Everybody who’s out is graduating this year, and frankly I don’t want any queer kid here going through the hell I did. Something needs to change. You could help. You could make a real difference, if you want to._

He passes the sheet to Schuester, watches his teacher’s forehead crease.

But when Mr. Schu looks up, it’s with a steady nod. “Of course, Kurt,” he says. “Count on it.”

Kurt walks out of the choir room smiling.

He’d been worried, is still worried, about what life will be like for the next out kids here, considering the entire out population will be graduating in about a month. He wishes someone else were out so that all they’ve learned doesn’t go to waste, so that their little increments of progress aren’t lost.

But this, at least, is something. 

McKinley isn’t a safe haven by any means, but it’s getting there. They’re getting it there.

* * * 

**4:28 p.m.**

By the time he spots Kurt leaving McKinley, Blaine is plenty awake. He’s idling just outside the exit, throwing occasional glances into the rearview mirror. Dave is in the backseat, bracketed once again by Santana and Quinn. The girls are statuesque, straight-backed and silent. Dave, slouched forward and clutching at his stained letterman’s jacket, hardly looks like Dave at all.

Blaine unlocks the passenger side when Kurt nears, trying to force his stiff jaw into a smile as his boyfriend slides into the car. 

He’s prepared for Kurt’s quizzical eyebrow. He passes Kurt the sheet of paper he’d been clutching for the past fifteen minutes. 

Kurt takes it, absentmindedly smoothing where Blaine’s fingers had left indentations. 

_Dave, Quinn, and Santana are stranded,_ the note reads. _Some bastards let the air out of all four of Dave’s tires, and since he gave Santana and Quinn a ride today…. I figured we’d drive them all home, and then you and I can head up to Dalton._

Kurt’s fingers curl into the grooves that Blaine had left as he reads, and by the time he finishes the paper is stretched taut between his hands. He looks up at Blaine and nods. Blaine takes his hand; their fingers entwine, and they clutch each other so hard that their knuckles turn white. 

Kurt twists around in his seat to lay his free hand on Dave’s forearm, catching the other boy’s attention. _I’m sorry,_ Kurt mouths. Blaine presses a hand up and down Kurt’s back as Dave shrugs, still huddled in on himself, the inverse of Santana who is glaring at everything, fidgety and tense in her seat, one hand braced on Dave’s shoulder, the other gripping clawlike at the door handle. Quinn is staring straight-faced out the window: were it not for her arm curled around Dave’s back, hand clutching Santana’s on his shoulder, Blaine would think she was bored.

Blaine sighs, and when Kurt’s face turns to him in response he only allows his hand to trace past Kurt’s shoulders, up his neck and over the hinge of his jaw to cup his cheek for a moment before he, Blaine, turns back to the steering wheel. 

Blaine drives carefully, and the silent car would be lonely, even packed as it is, were it not for Kurt’s hand still gripping his, grounding him. 

(At red lights, he studies Kurt’s tired lovely eyes and chances glances into the mirrors at Quinn, Dave, and Santana. He doesn’t understand why it should have to be so hard for them. …And he wishes they knew what the deflated tires _mean_ —were some idiot puckheads just bored, or has Dave been outed? Or something in between? The uncertainty is almost worse than the act itself….) 

They go to Dave’s house first because Santana lives closer to Kurt, clear on the other side of town, and Blaine figures they’ll stop by Kurt’s anyway before heading up to Dalton so that Kurt can drive himself home later. (Besides, Blaine isn’t convinced that Santana wouldn’t destroy everything breakable in sight and possibly start a street brawl if she were left to her own devices right now.) 

Quinn, her face still blank, unbuckles herself and gets out of the car so that Dave won’t have to climb over her. But Dave doesn’t budge. He looks up, his eyes locked on the house, the lights shining from the first-floor windows. His mother is home; his father will be home within an hour or two. His mother will have started dinner by now, and if he doesn’t talk to her on his way in, she’ll come up to talk to him after the casserole or chicken or roast is in the oven. There will be questions about his day at school, well-meant mother questions, and he will have no answers that he can force past the knot of fear occupying his gut. Then there will be questions about his silence. Questions about where his car is, and about how he got home, and after a while they will reach _what happened, David? Are you all right? What’s going on?_

Which will lead to, _Who are you?_

And Dave can’t. Dave doesn’t have anything to offer them. He doesn’t have anything left after today. No words, no explanations, no energy. Just being in this car, holding himself in something resembling a sitting position, is pressing against the edges of what he can manage. 

Time probably passes, and looks are probably exchanged, maybe some texts. Then Quinn reclaims her seat beside him and she closes the door and her arm settles around him, and yes, there, he feels something: it’s kind of like contentment except instead of the peace in it there’s numbness. Still, though. He leans into Quinn, and her sigh is like a smile. Santana’s hand slips from his shoulder and into his palm. He closes his fingers around hers; her response is to squeeze so hard that it’s a matter of seconds before his hand loses feeling. 

Santana always did suck at comfort. 

The car lurches: they’re back in drive, headed across town to Santana’s. But they only make it about three feet from Dave’s driveway when Blaine’s phone buzzes in the cupholder, just barely audible over the mechanical hum of the car in the absence of voices or music. Blaine raises his and Kurt’s clasped hands to his lips, kissing Kurt’s hand and glancing away from the road briefly to nod to the phone. Kurt plucks the phone up, unlocks it (Santana huffs and rolls her eyes: _Disgustingly domestic,_ as she’s told them before), reads the message. A huff of startled breath leaves Kurt, which must mean something to Blaine because his eyes flicker to Kurt; he pulls off to the side of the suburban street. 

In the backseat, Quinn and Santana stop glowering out opposite windows long enough to exchange a confused look. Kurt and Blaine don’t notice, too distracted by the newest texts:

4:53 p.m.  
From: Nick   
To: Blaine  
Hey, are you and Kurt on your way? …Jeff’s not doing so well….

I mean, he’s fine. He will be fine. But yeah. 

Blaine opens a new text. _We’re on our way,_ he taps out one-handed. _Mind if we bring a few Silent friends?_ Before pressing _send,_ he shows the text to Kurt; together they look back at Quinn, Dave, and Santana, still holding each other together. Kurt nods in agreement, and Blaine sends it to Nick. Either all five of them go, or they delay another thirty minutes at minimum driving all the way across town to drop them off at Santana’s before coming back this way toward Dalton. Nick sounds like he wants help as soon as possible. 

4:56 p.m.  
From: Nick  
To: Blaine  
Sure, bring them. What the hell. It’s hit or miss, but so is everything at this point. Just let me know when you get here so I can check you in.

As soon as he gets Nick’s approval, Blaine swings the car around, heading out of Lima. Santana leans forward to ask what’s going on, and Kurt holds up the sheet of paper from before, now with _Headed to Dalton_ written across the back. Santana reaches for it, but instead of giving it to her Kurt adds _Silent friends there. They could use some company. You okay with coming?_

Santana sits back, nodding once before sending her glare back out the window. Quinn nods too, with the slightest hint of a smile. She nudges Dave so that he looks up and reads the paper. He shrugs, then nods, holding tight to Santana’s hand. 

Kurt realizes then that he does not want to be separated from them either, not today. He knew he wouldn’t want to be separated from Blaine, not at all, but he’d expected that going into today, and it’s glaringly obvious now because they’re still holding each other’s hands even though they never do when one of them is driving, and honestly what they’re doing now is less like holding and more like clutching, though it’s calmed from the initial deathgrip. Kurt can see the three in the back are holding each other similarly. Something like calm settles into Kurt’s skin. Today, the five of them belong together, and here they are. 

Kurt shifts so that he’s facing forward again, drawing Blaine’s captured hand to his lips to kiss his knuckles. The sky outside is grey and uniform, darkening, and the wind buffets their silent car as it speeds along the highway. Kurt kisses Blaine’s hand again before letting their joined palms fall back to the center console, and yes, he is happy they all are together today.

* * * 

**6:02 p.m.**

Kurt texts Nick when they’re about two minutes away from Dalton, so by the time they pull into the parking lot, he’s already waiting for them in the lobby. They pile out of Blaine’s car, stretching their stiff limbs and massaging the blood back into the places they’d been clutching at each other. Kurt and Blaine clasp their hands back together and usher the other three ahead, Santana and Quinn still flanking Dave.

Nick smiles when the five of them step in, but they’re not quite sure where to go from there until Santana rolls her eyes, yanks her phone out of her bra (Nick’s eyes widen before he visibly reigns himself in) and types out _i’m santana, that’s quinn, and this is dave. we’re in glee with blanderson & kurt._ She shows Nick, who takes her phone and tacks on _I’m Nick. Nice to meet you all!_

Dave attempts a smile but doesn’t get very far; Quinn does a little better. Santana huffs out an exasperated breath and types _calm it, preppy, I don’t do dick anymore._ Nick, clearly expecting something along the lines of _Aw shucks, nice to meet you too!_ turns bright red and nearly drops Santana’s phone when he tries to hand it back. Kurt snatches the phone just as it’s about to disappear down Santana’s shirt. He gives her a reproving look (met with Santana’s pleased smirk) while Blaine steps forward to pull Nick into a hug. Nick lets out a long breath and squeezes back hard, and then he steps away, all humor and embarrassment gone from his face. He looks around the group at large and gestures for them to follow. 

Kurt and Blaine smile faintly as they trail through Dalton’s halls on their way to the dorms, passing familiar classrooms and favorite alcoves, the smell of fresh paper and old wood bringing them back to days that stand out young and bright, even though it wasn’t so long ago that they were here together. The sight of one curving staircase in particular has them moving closer, Blaine’s head tucked momentarily against Kurt’s cheek as they walk by.

Santana struts behind them, her boots making each step echo through the halls like a gunshot. She’s watching the boys avidly. They don’t usually touch this much—she should know, she spent the entire month of September creeping on them, trying to figure out if they’d done the deed over the summer. (Results: inconclusive.) 

Besides. This way, tracking the descent of Kurt’s hand toward Blaine’s ass, (she scoffs when it comes to rest low on his waist instead,) Santana can’t think about Dave’s flattened tires or Dave’s white face afterwards, Dave’s terrified voice on the phone the night before, Dave scared and unprepared this morning as she forced him up and out the door, and _god, this better be nothing, this better fucking be less than nothing—it’s just the puckheads shitting themselves because it’s Friday and they always get up to stupid crap on Friday—because otherwise...._

Dave, trailing behind her, is concentrating on the way the floor creaks beneath him. He’s watching his shoes. He’s remembering the only other time he’s seen the uniform the other kid, Nick, is wearing. It was that day in the stairwell at McKinley, the day after he forced himself on Kurt. The day they first tried to help him. The echo of his fear back then only brings his fear now to the surface again. He ducks his face further, feeling a shudder spread from the backs of his arms down to his fingertips.

Quinn has tucked her arm through Dave’s. She rubs her other hand up and down his arm as they walk, wondering whether he knows he’s shivering like a spooked horse. 

They make it to the dorms through a set of heavy double doors, wood switching to linoleum and chandeliers to florescent lighting. The dense quiet of Dalton’s academic halls after hours is disrupted by the noise of Dalton’s boarders, video games and impromptu wrestling matches and arguments over whether to order from Domino’s or Papa John’s tonight. The sounds are strange, jarring; it’s a relief when they make it up three flights of stairs to Nick’s room. They step through the doorway into a warm, dim space, let the door fall shut and mute the Dalton boys’ voices into a vague background hum. 

None of them even notice Jeff until Nick goes over to him. The blonde boy is curled up, his chin resting on his knees, his long blond bangs hanging over his face. There’s a plain candle flickering on the floor in front of him; the tips of his socked toes touch the warm edge of its glass holder. He looks like a little kid. Kurt sways backward, hit with déjà vu: this is exactly how he used to sit, those first few months after his mother died, when he would sneak into his parents’ room while his father was at the garage, when he would open up his mother’s wardrobe, and just bask in the smell, in the realness of her. 

Jeff is looking up now, shaking his hair out of his eyes, blinking himself back into the now. He sets the candle on Nick’s desk and gives them all a little wave, taking the paper that Nick offers him and writing _Hey, I’m Jeff._

Blaine wonders what Dave and Santana and Quinn are thinking. Objectively, Jeff seems fine, maybe even cheerful. But Blaine has known Jeff for three years, and this is not Jeff being cheerful. Usually, Jeff is hyper, bouncy, outgoing, and so enthusiastic it hurts (and this is coming from Blaine, who regularly sings girl pop with gusto while dancing on furniture). Usually, watching Jeff meet new people is rather like watching a puppy whose owners have just come home. 

Jeff is not the type of a boy to sit alone on the floor with his chin on his knees. 

(Then again, Blaine did know that Jeff must be like this sometimes, once a month when Jeff doesn’t come to dinner and Nick spends the entire afternoon anxious and tired. But you don’t notice things like that, not after the first time. Or if you take note of the pattern, you don’t grasp what it _means,_ you don’t spend dinner thinking about sunny, coltish Jeff sitting alone in the dark on the other side of campus. Blaine had known without taking the time to understand.) 

Blaine crouches, reeling Jeff into a hug. Jeff slumps against him momentarily before pulling back with a halfhearted grin. 

Sudden light makes them squint; everyone turns to find Kurt opening the door. He ushers them all back into the noisy hall and down to the communal kitchen on the second floor. 

Kurt doesn’t know whether baking cookies was exactly what Nick had in mind when he invited them over, but it seems to work well regardless. It’s the perfect distraction. (And anyway, he had to get Santana out of that dark soft delicate room before she managed to do something offensive. There’s exactly one person who Kurt trusts Santana to be careful with when they’re at their weakest, and that’s Brittany.) 

They have to scavenge for ingredients (which is twice as hard when because they can’t actually talk; three times as hard for Dave, Santana, and Quinn because they don’t know any of the people they’re asking; and four times as hard for Santana and Quinn because all the poor estrogen-starved straight boys are hitting on them), then scavenge again for a decent baking sheet (Kurt insists that he has seen AP Chem students doing experiments on the one provided in the kitchen), then figure out how to use the cranky old oven. The cookies end up being peanut-butter-white-chocolate-chip because Nick inexplicably has white chocolate chips in his room and a clearly enthused Jeff inhales about half the bag before the chips even get into the batter. The cookies are done (or, rather, a third are undercooked, a third are perfect golden-brown, and a third are a bit singed) at the same time that their sandwiches arrive thanks to Jimmy Johns’ online order forms. 

The meal is quiet, of course, but it’s not solemn in the slightest. Jeff puts the remaining white chocolate chips on his turkey sandwich despite Nick’s comical attempts to salvage them. (Nick does manage to steal a couple back but has to rinse the mustard off before he can eat them.) Then Blaine passes around a picture message from Wes and David, smiling through the duct tape over their mouths, apparently participating in some Day of Silence demonstration at Stanford. By the time the cookies have been reduced to peanut buttery crumbs, everyone is smiling, even Dave, who ignored five of his parents’ texts and calls asking where he is before finally tapping out _I’m with friends, I’m fine_ beneath the table. He turns his phone off after that. 

They wash up (doing dishes nearly turns into a bubble fight but Kurt’s not having it, especially once Jeff almost gets bubbles into Kurt’s hair, and Santana’s nails are making the game more violent than necessary anyway) and then head back to Nick’s room for a movie. There’s a brief scuffle over movie to watch (Nick’s tastes apparently vary from _Paranormal Activity_ to _Love, Actually_ to _Fahrenheit 9/11_ ) which Quinn resolves by putting on _500 Days of Summer_ and watching as the rest of them get sucked in. 

Eventually, they do give up on their respective choices (Kurt is last, reluctantly relinquishing movie version of _RENT_ ), come off their sugar highs, and settle in to watch. Jeff ends up on the bed between Nick and Quinn, all of them swaddled in one enormous fleece blanket. (Kurt is surprised by how quickly Quinn has warmed up to the Dalton boys. Perhaps she hasn’t turned cold, like he thought, just…discerning. Either way, he’s happy to see her smile again.) Dave and Santana make a nest of blankets and pillows on the ground just in front of the screen and end up kicking and prodding each other through the first hour of the movie, trying to get comfortable. (Blaine catches each of them grinning, though. He’s pretty sure they’re only play-fighting. Well, he was more sure before Dave put Santana into a chokehold and her nails gouged out one of his forearms. But still.) Kurt and Blaine claim the futon between the bed and floor. At first they’re just holding hands, but before long Blaine’s tilting toward Kurt’s warmth, then leaning on his shoulder, and soon enough Kurt’s head is resting atop Blaine’s, his arm snaking around Blaine’s back to curl along his arm; they slide down incrementally until Kurt is lounging against one of the futon’s arms, Blaine’s head on his chest and his torso cradled between Kurt’s legs. Blaine lets out a satisfied sigh when Kurt’s arms finally wrap around his back, already halfway through the movie, and Nick snorts amusedly and tosses an extra blanket over them. 

When the credits start roll, the last vestiges of sunlight have long since disappeared, and the room is dark excepting the half-light of the title screen. Kurt and Blaine are drifting near sleep, Kurt’s hand idly stroking over Blaine’s hair and neck, Blaine nuzzling closer into Kurt’s ribs, their breathing even and slow. Jeff is completely asleep behind them, sprawled across Nick’s bed and gradually stealing more and more of the oversized blanket that had originally covered Nick and Quinn as well. 

Nick had been comfortable until Jeff stole his blanket, but now he’s awake enough to clamber awkwardly over Kurt and Blaine to switch off the movie. 

Then the room is completely dark. 

Nick doesn’t mind the dark, he wasn’t even particularly afraid of it as a kid, but the darkness strikes him as wrong just now, and he freezes, still bent over the DVD player. 

And a moment later it comes to him—of course. He tiptoes over Dave and Santana to get to his desk—it’s hard to tell whether they’re awake or asleep since they’re all still silent. Yes, there are the matches; he strikes one and re-lights Jeff’s candle. It must have gone out during the movie, maybe when Nick had thrown that blanket over Kurt and Blaine….

When he turns back to reclaim his spot on the bed, five pairs of eyes are watching him. Quinn sits up, shrugging the last of the blanket off her shoulders and feeding it into Jeff’s cocoon. Blaine turns in Kurt’s arms so that they’re rested back to chest, facing Nick. 

Santana, of course, is the one to break the silence (as it were). The screen of her phone lights her face for half a second, their only warning before Nick’s phone vibrates with a new text on his bed. 

Nick picks his way back through the others and sits gingerly on the bed—Jeff is usually a heavy sleeper, but that’s not so sure, this time of year. Once he’s sure he’s not about to elbow his best friend in the head or anything, he reads the text:

_so what’s going on with blondie, anyway?_

Nick usually shrugs off questions like this. People who don’t know Jeff don’t need to know about Micah. 

But this is different. These kids get it. They’re silent today, for one. But even more…they came here when Nick asked, not knowing him and not knowing Jeff. That says a lot about either them as people or about their friendship with Kurt and Blaine. Either way, he trusts them, he feels like he owes them an explanation, and he doesn’t think Jeff would mind. 

Nick toes across the room again to get a notebook and then, at the last second, Jeff’s—well, Micah’s—candle. 

He sets the candle on his bedside table and leans close, the flame warming his cheeks and eyelids as he writes.

He’s never told the story before, and he’s only heard Jeff tell bits and pieces of it over the years. It’s hard to remember, really, to separate it out from his own childhood and from all the anniversaries in the intervening years.

_It’s been ten years,_ he starts, because it has. 

Ten years ago, he and Jeff were best friends. Ten years ago…they’d been, let’s see…eight years old. Best friends for three years already, then. They’d met in kindergarten at Ms. Gregory’s class and never really looked back. 

They used to play at Jeff’s house more than Nick’s because Nick liked Jeff’s house, liked Jeff’s father who was warmhearted, who would take them to the park to play catch or sometimes to get ice cream even if it was almost bedtime. He liked Jeff’s mother, bleach blonde but never dressed up or made up like Nick’s mother, often as energetic as her children; she seemed to live in the kitchen, concocting strange meals that sometimes tasted good and sometimes tasted horrible but were always so _exciting._ He liked Jeff’s brother, who was eight years older than them (sixteen!) and therefore _so cool,_ and he was always so nice to them, when he was home while they were playing. He liked Jeff’s sister, too, because she was bold, even though she was only four and so her boldness meant that she always tried her very hardest to get in on their games. 

Ten years ago they were only eight; they hadn’t really understood what was going on; they hadn’t noticed the signs. (Had there been signs? Nick thinks he remembers things, but he has spent so much time thinking about this that he’s not sure he didn’t imagine them; he doesn’t trust his own memory.)

It was an April afternoon—a Tuesday, Nick remembered, sunny and normal—when Micah didn’t come home. No older brother to irritate until he gave in and played War with them. No one to help them with their math homework, unless they wanted to interrupt Jeff’s mom, which no, because anything she left unattended on the stove was likely to boil over and start a minor fire. 

Jeff and Nick had wondered more than worried, curious about all the things a teenager could be getting up to, what stories he would have for them tomorrow. 

Micah was found later, a few hours later that night, dead. 

Nick remembers the funeral, of course, but he doesn’t remember the coffin or the flowers or the speeches. He remembers Jeff’s face, angry, distraught, blotchy, his eyes swollen nearly shut from crying—and he remembers thinking that they weren’t children anymore. 

Micah’s death had been ruled a suicide shortly after. 

Jeff’s parents let Jeff read the note Micah had written and folded neatly and tucked in the pocket of his jeans; they let Jeff hold that one sheet of paper and cry over it and crinkle it and sleep with it against his chest, but not tear it. They read it to Amy, too, because she was too young to read it herself. They thought they owed Micah that. 

They hadn’t even known, when Micah was alive, that he was gay. Nick hardly ever let himself think about this part, because it hurt to goddamn bad, and he had to hold it together for Jeff if nothing else—but Jeff was asleep now, and Nick wanted to explain. The worst part was that everything could have been fine. There had been so goddamn many opportunities for things to go right. Nick couldn’t imagine Jeff’s mom or dad giving a damn about their kids’ sexual orientations. It was all skewed in his memory now, confused, Nick knew, but still. Jeff’s mother in her fraying yellow apron, gently snuffing out a fire in the frying pan. His father sneaking them each a quarter for gumballs, and then more quarters until they each got their favorite color. Why hadn’t Micah just _told_ them? 

They found out about all that in Micah’s note. And when dug further, they got to an administration who was very sympathetic, oh of course; they got to a faculty who uncomfortably shrugged off the whole ordeal; they got down to the slurs on the bathroom stalls and half scrubbed off Micah’s locker and the kids—no not ‘kids’ because what kind of child would drive another to take his life?—these bullies—or not ‘bullies’ because that sounded so small and this was not small, this was not a playground scrimmage but a life. 

All that had come later for them, for Jeff and Nick. ‘Gay’ didn’t really mean much to a couple eight-year-olds. 

It meant more in middle school when ‘fag’ started being thrown around and Jeff started answering it with a punch to the mouth. That had started the rumors about Jeff being gay, and then about Jeff and Nick being gay together. Their best-friendship turned even more insular after that, and, well, fuck the rest of their middle school; Jeff and Nick didn’t give a damn because they had each other. (Nick was always too aware that Micah hadn’t had the luxury of a best friend, and hadn’t had the deep, shameful, secret reassurance that the bullies _couldn’t_ be right about them, anyway, because they were both straight.) 

It meant more at Dalton, where the zero tolerance policy meant an unusually large population of bullied gay kids, Blaine and Kurt included. Jeff, and by association of course Nick, always gravitated toward them, making sure they felt welcome at least, and sometimes becoming friends too. 

Jeff did the Day of Silence every year. It was painfully relevant, and it almost always fell in the same week as the anniversary of Micah’s suicide. He burned a candle for his brother on the 16th of every month. He visited Micah’s grave irregularly but often, and always on Micah’s birthday and the anniversary of his death. 

To their credit, the McKinley kids don’t make a sound as Nick writes, working his way through the story, unsure if he’s making much sense. Jeff snuffles and turns over and over in his sleep, wrapping himself further into his cocoon; Quinn pets his hair, the only part of him visible outside the blankets, until he calms. Nick isn’t sure if Kurt and Blaine are asleep or not, but they’re completely still, wrapped around each other, breathing in sync. Dave sits crosslegged, fiddling with his shoelaces, and Santana slouches against the edge of Nick’s desk, eyes fixed on the candle that burns lower and lower as he writes. 

When it’s done, several notebook pages covered in his increasingly shoddy handwriting and the candle clinging to the last of its wick, Nick sits back and lets out a long breath. Then he offers the notebook to Kurt and Blaine, who are closest. 

Kurt takes the notebook and turns to the beginning, where Nick’s letters are even and well-shaped. Nick thought that the others would read it together, but the room is so quiet, so still and warm and heavy that no one else moves. Nick watches the way their shadows flash unsteadily on the walls, listens to them breathe; time passes. 

They turn the last page. Blaine slides the notebook from Kurt’s hands. Kurt jolts, reaching for the it again, but Blaine hands it to Dave, who is sitting closest to them. Kurt settles back down again with a huff, casting a worried glance at Dave, before Blaine leans back against his chest and presses a chaste kiss to his jaw. 

The room sinks back into stillness; the only difference is that Santana’s eyes now rest on Dave’s face. 

As he reads, Dave’s expression crumbles. 

Dave is very, very far past what he is equipped to handle in one day. The only reason he gets through the entire story is inertia. Santana has to tug the notebook from his hands when he’s done because he is just sitting there, reading and rereading the last few words. 

Dave knows that he’s in no state to think about much of anything, much less make any life-altering decisions. 

He makes one anyway. 

He’d like to say he makes is to honor this kid Micah or something noble like that. He doesn’t. He makes it because he sees himself much too clearly in both Micah and Micah’s tormentors. He doesn’t want to be either of those things. And he’s scared, he’s so fucking scared, because it would be so easy to become one or the other. 

When Santana tugs the notebook from his loose fists at last, he hangs his head between his knees, letting the warm heavy quiet darkness swallow him for a moment. He basks in a strange surreal peace. 

He misses Quinn rising carefully from the bed and perching behind Santana so that she can read as well. He misses, too, Jeff blinking himself awake into the half-light, rolling up onto his elbows, his eyes drawn to Micah’s candle and then to his best friend’s face. 

The girls finish reading a while later, once Dave is sitting upright again, his eyes unblinking but dry; Jeff is leaning heavily on Nick’s shoulder. 

Quinn takes her seat on the bed again, and she takes Jeff’s hand with a squeeze and a half-smile. 

It was going to just be a little gesture, a little empty gesture because what else can Quinn do?, but then Santana takes Quinn’s other hand and grabs Dave’s, and Nick moves the candle to the unoccupied end of the futon so that they form a circle around it. Kurt knows that prayer circles look like this sometimes, and he figures Quinn might be praying, but Kurt is not; he is feeling, he is watching, he is honoring. Nick takes Kurt’s free hand, completing the circle, and there they stay until candle burns out. 

 

**Saturday, April 21, 2012**

**12:01 a.m.**

The five McKinley kids have forced themselves properly awake and said their goodbyes and promised Nick and Jeff facebook friend requests and a proper reunion once Nationals are over, and now they’re piled back into Blaine’s car, Quinn and Santana each sleeping on one of Dave’s shoulders, Dave dead asleep with his arms around their shoulders and his head tilted precariously back against the headrest. 

The drive is long and dark and silent, but Blaine is content anyway because Kurt is there, keeping him awake, running his thumb back and forth over Blaine’s palm. 

By the time they’ve dropped off Dave, who sneaks in through the back door, and Santana and Quinn, who are still half asleep and apparently too far gone for stealth tactics, Kurt and Blaine are exhausted. They pull into the Hummels’ driveway, and Kurt reaches over the center console to tug Blaine’s keys out of the ignition. Blaine tilts his head in question—he’d been planning to drive home, and god knows an impromptu sleepover isn’t going to go over well with either of their fathers, but he’s honestly exhausted, the blink-yourself-awake kind of exhausted, he shouldn’t be driving, and anyway the last thing he wants right now is to be away from Kurt. 

Kurt nods back to him, thank god, pulls him out of the car and into the house, up the stairs, and into bed. Blaine isn’t sure that Kurt is thinking straight, because the only way that this will be remotely okay is if Blaine sleeps on the couch, but just as Blaine opens his mouth to say something, Kurt rolls onto Blaine’s chest, curling up with his head tucked along Blaine’s throat. The weight makes it too hard for Blaine to manage speech, and he thinks he should try anyway, but he’s asleep before the next thought can come.

* * * 

**3:26 a.m.**

…the faintest touch skimming the small of his back. Blaine drifts, content…. 

He comes awake slowly, his eyelids reluctant, his mind sluggish, half-mired in fragments of dreams. His mind follows the touch as it traces indecipherable pattern over the exposed skin of his back and side, the strip of skin between his jeans and where his shirt has ridden up. 

He blinks, finally, and the room is the same color as the back of his eyelids. It is still early, then, or perhaps this is a dream yet. 

“Blaine.” It’s just an exhale against his throat; Kurt’s fingers dip under Blaine’s shirt for a moment before curling back. 

“Shhhh,” Blaine answers, his breath ghosting over Kurt’s messy hair, bringing a few strands up to tickle Blaine’s nose. 

Blaine hears Kurt take a short quick breath like he’s about to speak; “Shhh,” Blaine breathes, and he rolls so that Kurt is trapped under his weight. Kurt hums in assent, then sighs happily, and his fingers resume their wandering over Blaine’s back. 

Blaine nuzzles into Kurt’s hair, pressing a kiss there, and soon enough sleep swallows him back down. 

Kurt drifts between vague dreams and dim wakefulness, tracing Blaine’s skin throughout, always the same pattern: _I love you, I love you, I love you._

 

**Friday, May 4, 2012**

**4:57 p.m.**

Two weeks later, Nationals are over (they placed third, which is pretty damn good considering their competition); Kurt and Blaine are finally ungrounded (they were spared the brunt of the lecturing because they were both fully dressed, in the previous day’s clothes no less); and there’s only a week left until graduation. 

They’re piled in Blaine’s car again, Blaine and Kurt in front and Quinn, Santana, and Dave in back. It’s exactly the same seating arrangement as the Day of Silence, which would seem eerie and prophetic except that Blaine is blasting some disturbingly catchy monstrosity of a Katy Perry / Lady Gaga mashup and they’ve just come from the last glee meeting (which isn’t really the last, because they’re singing together at graduation and regardless they’re a family at this point and will probably see way too much of each other this summer), which basically consisted of Rachel sobbing over their shiny new third place trophy until somebody started singing _Don’t Stop Believin’_ and of course once the singing got going it wasn’t going to stop until the janitors forced them out of the building. 

They’re still singing now, though it’s pretty hard to harmonize properly when _E.T._ suddenly turns into _Just Dance._ Even when Dave’s bass drops out—Blaine keeps glancing in the mirror to see the other boy’s face looking completely white—it’s never long before Santana launches into a string of incomprehensible Spanish and drags him back into the song. 

Kurt has the decency to turn off _Last Friday Night_ when they park in front of Dave’s house. 

It’s silent, densely silent, for about two seconds before Santana drawls, “So you gonna get this shit done?” 

Dave huffs out an irritated breath, but he chuckles too, glaring at Santana in affectionate dismay. Quinn kisses his cheek, and then he clambers over her to get out of the car. He pauses on the pavement, hand still on the open door. 

“We’ll be right here, David,” Kurt says quietly. 

“Take your time,” says Blaine. 

Dave turns, he walks up the driveway, pauses again on the front porch, and lets himself in. They all watch the door swing shut behind him. 

“He’ll be fine,” Quinn says a moment later. “He’s ready for this.” 

“ _Jesucristo,_ he’d better be,” mutters Santana darkly, though she’s twirling her hair through her fingers anxiously, eyes fixed on the front door. 

“He is,” says Kurt, tearing his eyes from the door and turning to face Blaine. “He definitely is,” Kurt repeats, more to himself than anything. 

“Thanks to you,” Blaine murmurs, taking Kurt’s hands between his own. 

Kurt grins, grateful, but he shakes his head. “No,” he says. “Thanks to all of us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know what you think in the comments! (Really, I'll be overjoyed to hear your thoughts, flailing, concrit, ramblings, full academic papers...anything!)

**Author's Note:**

> You can find out more about the yearly GLSEN Day of Silence at www.dayofsilence.org. 
> 
> I'd love to hear what you think in the comments.


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